In Time
by Elialys
Summary: Sometimes, you get a second chance. Family!fic. Companion piece to 'In Reverse'.
1. I

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything Fringe related, except maybe for my ideas in these fics.

**Spoilers:** Uhm...up to the end of season 3 I guess.

**Rating:** Let's go with **T** for now.

**A/N:** Hello guys! I almost want to say 'long time no see' XD I've actually been busy writing, posting this fic on my tumblr, and since people seem to enjoy it, I think it's time to share it here as well. A bit of an explanation is obviously needed:

This story is a companion piece to '_In Reverse_', which was -as most of my readers surely know by now- a future!Polivia story. What I mean by 'companion piece' is that it's not a sequel. What I've done is that I chose a point in time within my '_In Reverse_' chronology, and started writing a completely different future for them. I think of it as my "Alternate Future!Polivia" XD

I've decided to write this mostly because I need closure when it comes to some aspects of that particular story. And by that I mean the fact that I basically killed their child and felt quite bad about it :D So you know what you're getting yourself into if you read it.

If you do read it, I'm going to assume you have read '_In Reverse_'. You might be very confused if you haven't. Chronologically speaking, it starts in 2018, which means that it includes everything I wrote in '_In Reverse_' from part XI to part XX. It is all canon in this story (it obviously includes the whole baby!drama). Basically, everything I already wrote that happened between 2014 and 2018, happened. I'm '_simply_' changing their future.

Now that you're all confused, you can go read XD

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

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><p><strong>I.<strong>

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><p><em>(April 2018)<em>

As she finds herself throwing up rather violently for the third time in two days, Olivia tries to convince herself again that this is just a stomach bug, a stupid stomach bug. So far it had worked quite well.

Not anymore, though.

And she can't tell what has caused what, if her nausea is a reaction to what has dawned on her as she was checking her calendar for upcoming meetings, or if the fact that she was nauseous yet again helped her brain connect the dots and point out the obvious. Not that it matters much. The thought is in her mind, now, spreading in her veins like poison, and burning her throat in a rush of acidic bile and sour coffee –the only thing she had really felt like swallowing these past few days, plagued as she has been with nausea and annoying exhaustion. Needless to say that _that_ thought isn't helping either at the moment; actually, it makes her feel even worse, some sort of dormant instinct kicking in and scowling at her for being so thoughtless.

But how could she have known she shouldn't have been drinking cup of coffee after cup of coffee? This should not even be happening at all.

The retching stops eventually, once she has nothing left in her stomach to throw up -though she wouldn't mind getting rid of the building panic in her chest. Her whole body keeps on shaking as she slumps down, holding onto the toilet bowl in a death grip, resting her clammy forehead upon her hands and feeling beyond miserable.

She doesn't want to move, doesn't want to think; even breathing is hardly bearable right now, each wobbly gulps she takes sounding more frantic than the previous one in the otherwise silent room, when she should have been calming down.

But how could she be feeling even remotely calm?

The silence is suddenly broken by a series of knocks on the door, gentle yet persistent.

"Olivia?" He calls out calmly, but she hears the slight worry in his voice, and her desire to make herself disappear from this place increases. "Are you alright?"

She almost chuckles, but finds she cannot muster the strength to laugh at this just yet. She forces herself to straighten up instead, dully flushing the toilet, knowing that Peter is listening and that this sound at least will let him know she's in no immediate danger. Soon, she finds herself up on her feet, holding onto the sink now as she rinses her mouth, trying to avoid her reflection, and failing. She looks positively grey.

She quickly reaches out for the door. Even though she's absolutely not ready for this conversation, she knows he's worried, and in all honesty, she feels so close to having some kind of break down, she would rather have him here when it happens.

Her gaze meets his as soon as she opens the door. Leaning weakly against the frame, she watches as he quickly takes her in, and the line in his brow deepens even more; his eyes say more about his concern than he lets it show on the rest of his face. As she studies him equally, she notes the shade of grey in his hair, the familiar wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that weren't as pronounced a few years ago, and she feels very old herself.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly, knowing that she's not, but it is his way of trying to find out what kind of behavior she's expecting from him.

She doesn't even shake her head, simply stares back at him, her cheek pressed into the wood of the frame, and she silently begs her trembling legs to keep her up as she decides to leap in without further ado.

"I think I'm pregnant."

He reacts just the way she expected him to. He simply blinks at her a few times, face blank.

"What?"

She was expecting that, too; she forces herself to keep on breathing in and out slowly in a controlled pattern, aware that it might take him a moment to process the news. And so she keeps on going, matter-of-factly.

"I should have been having my period right now. I'm nauseous and tired instead."

Blinks. "Maybe…it's just…late."

She shakes her head. "No, Peter. I've also realized I didn't have it last month either."

Blinks. "Oh." And then, his face falls, as realization kicks in. "Oh."

"Yeah…" she whispers, closing her eyes. "Oh."

This is so much worse than _'Oh'_, though. This is a huge _'Oh_ _God please no don't let this be true_'. And she desperately wants to believe it, to persuade herself she's just going through some sort of hormonal dysfunction, and that this has nothing to do with her bearing a child. She cannot be pregnant.

She can't go through this again.

She feels the gentle touch of his fingers on her cheek then, and reopens her eyes as he drops his hand. He looks stunned, and clearly far from being able to say anything helpful right now, but she doesn't care. She doesn't need him to lie to her; she sees and _feels _that he is battling with his own emotions, and that's enough for now, to know that whatever happens, he's in this with her.

"What do you need?" he asks softly, his face grave.

She bites her lip, shaking her head shortly. '_I_ _need for this NOT to be happening'_, she wants to tell him.

"A pregnancy test would be a good start, I guess," is what she says instead.

And he's already halfway out of the bedroom when he answers "I'm on it," sounding so much like Astrid that she almost smiles.

"Buy three of them," she tells him, only half-jokingly.

He comes back with five.

He offers her an apologetic shrug when she looks up from the bag. His face is paler, his features tensed, and she has no doubt that like her, he has spent the last twenty minutes truly taking in the enormity of what is happening. She doesn't blame him for panicking and buying all of these. She's not going to be picky, though. She randomly takes a box out of the bag and goes back to the bathroom.

As it turns out, it is one of those that don't bother with lines of colors anymore, provided with a little screen instead, which starts displaying a fancy image of a ticking clock as soon as she's done. It makes the waiting even worse.

She joins him back in the bedroom, and hands him the test, unable to look at it anymore right now. While he remains seated on the bed, quiet and remarkably calm, she goes back and forth again and again in front of him, twisting her fingers and not being exactly gentle with her hair; he knows better than to try and calm her down.

When the test finally starts beeping, an eternity later, she abruptly stops her rounds and turns back to him, his eyes already down and fixed on the screen. When he raises his head and their gazes meet, she knows.

He holds the test up for her to see anyway, and the word covering the small screen is irrefutable.

'**PREGNANT'**

She begins to pace again, her breathing loud and uneven now. She's starting to feel like the air is not correctly entering her lungs anymore, slowly depriving her of oxygen.

"How…" she hears Peter's low voice when he eventually tries to speak, but she doesn't look back at him, her anguish getting more suffocating with every passing second. "I don't understand. We've been careful."

'Careful' is an understatement. For the past three years, she has been keeping up with birth control advancements thoroughly, and she knows the only reason why she has not noticed her lack of period last month is because they had been too busy trying to control the Vortex near Chicago. And they _always_ use protection, now.

She had meant it, when she told him once she did not want any more children in the future, and he knows it.

She finds herself chuckling, a very nervous kind of chuckle, the sound coming out strangled, as she keeps on forcing the air down her throat, past the painful lump that has grown there. "We're apparently very good at defying statistics when it comes to pregnancies."

Her own words and everything they really mean are like the final straw, a violent slap, a blade plunged in her heart, brutally breaking apart the meager attempts she has made so far at pretending that she is alright, that she can handle this. Because she can't, she simply _can't_, and she's suddenly overwhelmed with pain, that pain that never completely goes away, that pain she's simply gotten really good at masking, keeping it to a low ache that silently wears her down day after day.

It is nothing close to a low ache right now, it's a throbbing gash in her chest, the hurt so intense that it becomes almost physical, and she can't even walk anymore, can't breathe, and she has to stop moving, her hands now up to her face as she fights for air. "Oh god," she's panting against her fingers. "Oh god…"

She's convinced she's going to collapse on the floor any second now, tremors fiercely rippling through her flesh, her limbs so heavy and weak as her heart pounds furiously in her rib cage, as if desperately pumping for the oxygen she doesn't seem able to get into her lungs anymore.

Next thing she knows, she's the one sitting on the bed, with Peter's hands on her face; he has knelt in front of her, and she's holding onto his shirt for dear life. It takes her a few foggy, panicked seconds to register and focus on what he's saying, his eyes the only thing she sees.

"Just breathe in and out, it's okay, just breathe in and out," he tells her firmly, yet gently, and one of his hands leave her face to come rest on hers. He manages to get her fingers to uncurl, until her palm is resting upon his chest, his hand covering hers, and he takes long and deep breaths between his calm encouragements.

Eventually, she manages to focus her mind on the feel of his chest rising and falling steadily under her hand, his heartbeat incredibly slow compared to the thumping sounds resonating against her ears, and little by little, she succeeds in matching her breathing to his own, his eyes never leaving hers.

When he's sure the worst of her panic has passed, he lets go of her hand to bring his fingers back to her face, sliding them through her hair. "You're okay... It's okay…" he keeps on repeating, and she finally musters the force to shake her head in his hands.

"It's not okay, Peter," she says in a breathless whisper, all she can manage at the moment. "There's absolutely nothing okay about this."

"We'll figure it out," he tells her reassuringly, and even though his eyes still shine with worry, she knows he means it.

She keeps on stubbornly shaking her head, still controlling her breathing. "I'm thirty-eight, Peter. That fact alone adds a whole new level of risks and problems to this pregnancy, which is already probably doomed because of what-"

But she can't bring herself to say it; she doesn't have the strength. Closing her eyes in an attempt to suppress the prickling sensation that has invaded them, she rests her forehead against his, trying to regain control over the pain, but it's pointless. They haven't even talked about _her_ in so long, in years really, and while she knows he was the reluctant one in the beginning, she has become accustomed to this silence, too, forced to believe that not mentioning the death of their daughter would lessen the pain, somehow.

But it has been so meaningless. Of course she thinks about her, still dreams about her, imagines how things would be if she were alive. She counts every day, knows that it has been three years and seven months since she was taken away from her, knows that she's most likely responsible for her death, on a biological level.

That feeling of loss and guilt follows her wherever they go, just like Peter will never be freed of his own burden.

Their vow of silence is about to be broken, though. Talking about Elizabeth and the way she died is inevitable, now that she's carrying another child; another innocent soul she had sworn to never offer as a sacrifice to this cruel, dying world, never again.

"Do you want to discuss…options?" He whispers against her lips after an endless moment, and she doesn't need to ask him what he means.

She knows what it costs him to utter these words, aware that it probably sickens him to even think it, but she's grateful for his honesty and pragmatism at that instant; this role is usually hers when it comes to their dynamic, but it is one she cannot seem to grasp right now.

She shakes her head against his, keeping her eyes closed. "There's really no option to discuss…" she whispers, fighting against the lump in her throat, which is growing painfully fast again. "This baby will either live or die...I'll do everything I can to help it live, not the other way around."

The way his breath hitches in his throat then, as he moves his hands from her face to encircle her and bury his face against her neck, makes her quite sure he's fighting tears himself. And there's more than pain in his embrace, somehow recognizing from a distant time the desperate hint of _hope_ in the way he holds onto her, a feeling that had been contagious at the time; it had been a sweet, comforting warmth, one she had allowed herself to feel with all her heart.

Not this time.

She's not even surprised when he says against her skin: "Maybe we're getting a second chance."

His voice is quiet, no louder than a murmur, as if he's afraid of his own words, as if saying them out loud might burst that feeble bubble of hope already blooming within him.

She wants to tell him all about how she doesn't want a second chance, doesn't need a second chance. Because she doesn't understand.

She doesn't understand why she's getting a second chance, when she would give _anything_ to get her first chance back.

She still doesn't understand why her baby girl had to die.

She doesn't tell him any of this, of course. She lets him hope, for she knows it is such a rare, fleeting feeling in their lives, choosing to press her nose into his hair instead, letting his scent soothe some of her aching fears.

Like she told him, no matter how afraid she is, how wrong she thinks this is, she will do everything in her power to insure this baby will live.

What she doesn't tell him either, though, is that until the moment comes when she can hold her breathing, healthy child in her arms, if that moment ever comes at all, she will not let herself love that child.

She has learned her lesson.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN**: It has to get worse before it gets better :) Also, people on tumblr don't seem to believe me when I say it, but I _swear_ I will not kill that baby.

Enjoy the episode tonight guys! And let me know what you think, I can post the second chapter shortly if I know you guys are interested; it's done and ready ;)


	2. II

**A/N: **Thank you so much for the reviews & alerts and favs, guys :)

I hope I can keep you interested XD I know the big hype right now are season 4 stories, but I'm afraid I'm stuck in the future; Peter is so much more...existent, in my timeline. So I'm gonna stay there until he comes back, because everything is married P/O having a baby and almost nothing hurts.

Enjoy :)

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

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><p><strong>II.<strong>

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><p><em>(June 2018)<em>

"Did you call Ella?"

Olivia raises her gaze from the article she was reading just as Peter starts pouring food from the pan onto her plate. She eyes his yellowish concoction a bit suspiciously.

"What is this?" She asks him instead of answering, dropping the magazine on the table and cautiously sniffing her food.

"Something healthy for the both of you," he answers from the kitchen, and she rolls her eyes, grabbing her fork anyway because she's starving. "And you're avoiding my question."

He's already back, taking the seat opposite her, and when she glances at him, he's giving her an intent look. She lowers her eyes back to her plate. "I'm not avoiding anything. I'll call her tomorrow."

"You said that three days ago," he counters her, sounding a bit patronizing now, and she doesn't approve of it at all. She chooses to remain silent, though, chewing on her food instead. It's actually not as bad as it looks, despite the color. "Olivia…" he insists, and her fork hits the plate with a _clunk_ as she looks back up at him, sighing exasperatedly.

"What difference does it make, Peter?" she snaps, feeling flushed already –thanks to her hormones. "She'll be here in two days. We can tell her then."

As usual, he remains annoyingly calm in response to her sudden irritation; he is now giving her a knowing look, which does nothing to soothe her. "You're the one who didn't want to tell her when she was here last month," he points out evenly, as she goes back to chewing a little too aggressively.

"We hadn't passed the twelve weeks mark, last month," she replies sternly, and she feels like they've had this conversation a hundred times already.

"Well, we have, now. Three weeks ago. Do you think she's going to like it, when she arrives in two days and realizes you're obviously pregnant?"

She gives him a dark look. "I'm not _obviously_ pregnant. I'm hardly showing at all."

He chuckles a little at that, and she licks her lips slowly. There are still times when she really feels like slapping that smirk off his face, even after ten years of putting up with him.

"You're showing." He tells her categorically, and she focuses back on her food, because he's right, and she hates that she doesn't have any good comeback for him.

The truth is, being almost sixteen weeks pregnant now, she _is_ showing, more than she was _the_ _last_ _time_ at the same milestone. Baggy shirts still cover her bump rather effectively, but it's becoming more and more difficult to hide her pregnancy to the rest of world.

Her supervisors know, of course, along with their closest coworkers and friends, and that's already too much for Olivia. She can still see Astrid's watery eyes when she told her the news, as tamely as she would have if she had been announcing a boring new case; she remembers her warm hug and the '_Congratulation_…' she had whispered in her ear, before letting her go so she could squeeze Peter in her arms. Unlike her, her husband had been positively glowing –figuratively speaking.

It's easy for Olivia to remember their friend's genuine joy. It's harder not to picture the look of pity there will be in Astrid's eyes if this pregnancy doesn't end well.

Again.

She puts her fork down, not feeling that hungry anymore. She then almost downs her entire glass of juice in one go, avoiding Peter's gaze, because he knows.

He knows way more than he lets it show.

"Your next OB/GYN appointment is on Friday. Are you going to lie to Ella about that?"

She brings her glass down slowly, finally meeting his eyes. "No," is all she says, eyes already back on her plate, picking her fork up and forcing herself to eat because she has to keep busy.

"Because I'm sure she would be thrilled to come with us, if you asked her."

She knows what he's doing, and she's pretty sure that if she didn't love him so much, she would surely start to hate him a little every time he gets insistent. She's now so tensed on her seat that a knot is forming in her lower back; it does not improve her mood. But she keeps her eyes resolutely down as she forces the food down her throat.

Next Friday is their next appointment indeed, during which they are supposed to learn if the baby is a boy or a girl.

And in all honesty, as sad as it may seem, Olivia doesn't want to know. Because knowing the sex means starting buying clothes, planning the decoration of the nursery. Brainstorming a name.

All details that make this child that much more real, details that contribute to giving him or her an identity, an identity she has successfully disregarded for the past ten weeks. And she doesn't even feel bad about being so detached. It's not as if she is being careless, because God knows she's _not_.

She's doing everything she's supposed to be doing, going to all her appointments, taking her vitamins, avoiding field work, letting Peter nurture her exceedingly –even if it means allowing him to cook all those organic meals. She's as healthy as ever, physically speaking.

On an emotional level, though, she's nothing but a wreck, and they both know it.

The only way she has found to keep those feelings bubbling just under the surface from breaking her down is to stay…disconnected. All she has to do is go through the motion, day after day, do everything that has to be done, and eventually, something will happen. Good or bad, she doesn't care.

She doesn't care.

And she wishes she was as immune to Peter's behavior to it all. Because he _does_ care, so much already, and it just breaks her heart.

She knows he's worried, of course, but she also knows his concern is more likely to be directed toward her and her current state of mind, rather than to their unborn child and its fate. He doesn't push her, though, not too often. But at times, like tonight, he does try to get her to react. She's not sure what reaction he's expecting from her, exactly, but the one he's likely to get right now might be explosive.

For the past two weeks, he's been regularly (and quite tirelessly) prodding her about the baby's sex. Because _the last time_, she knew it was a girl by then, knew when she wasn't even twelve weeks pregnant, well before she started showing at all. _The last time_, she had shared most of her amazement with him, telling him about that incredibly _odd_ connection she had with their child. She had told him about the colors in her mind, colors she knew her baby was seeing, too.

She's not telling him anything, this time around, and so he asks. He asks, and she says she feels nothing. She says there's no color, no connection, and that it surely means she hasn't passed the Cortexiphan to the baby, and that it is for the best.

He knows she's lying, just like she knows the connection would be there, just as strong as _the_ _last time_, if she only allowed herself to feel it.

That nudging feeling in her mind is inflexible, the sensation getting stronger and stronger with every passing day; she knows who is restlessly knocking at the iron gates she has put around her heart.

If she were honest with herself, she would give in and tell Peter the sex of their baby, because the answer is right there, growing within herself.

But she refuses to feel it.

So far, she has also done her best to try and keep Ella out of this as well, and that's why she finally tells him, still avoiding his gaze: "She's fourteen, Peter. I hardly think going to a sonogram appointment is how she wants to start her summer break."

She keeps on picking on her food, and a few seconds go by before she realizes the sound of her fork upon her plate is incredibly obnoxious in the heavy silence now surrounding them; unable to bear the feel of his gaze on her any longer, she eventually raises her eyes again, instantly meeting his. The smirk has completely gone from his face, his expression very grave.

"You're kidding, right?" He finally asks. Though his voice is calm, she recognizes every sign of aggravation in his tone and body language, and it feeds her own irritation. "She's going to be out of her mind with joy about this, and you know it. This baby is going to be like a brother or sister to her."

Olivia swallows hard, suddenly feeling like her meal might not stay down for very long. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "That's exactly why I don't want her to get too involved, emotionally," she says almost in a whisper. "She doesn't need that kind of pain on top of the rest."

He clenches his jaw then, which is _never_ a good sign; it has been a while since she last saw that particular kind of look on his face; his quiet understanding might just be about to expire. Very slowly, he puts his fork and knife down on the table, never taking his eyes away from hers.

"Olivia," he starts, and his voice is very low. "You need to stop acting like this baby is already dead."

She instantly tenses up; even though she was almost expecting it, his words hurt more than she thought they would. "I am not acting like-" But she stops herself, briefly closing her eyes and shaking her head, torn between aggravation, nausea, and sheer pain. "Just drop it, Peter."

"No, I'm not going to just _drop_ it," he replies without losing a beat, his anger now clear in his voice, and she has no other choice but to meet his darkened gaze again. "Just because I haven't said anything about it in over two months, it doesn't mean I don't know what you're doing, or not doing. I know you're keeping yourself from bonding with this baby, and I don't think it's fair, to neither of you."

It's her turn to drop her silverwares, though the gesture is rather violent and loud in her case, and she pushes herself away from the table, her anger matching his, now. "You really want to talk about what's _unfair_, Peter?" She almost shouts, barely realizing that she's gotten up on her feet and that her legs feels wobbly under her as she points at one side of the table with a shaky finger. "What's unfair is that there should already be a child sitting there, and that her body is rotting in the ground instead!"

She dry-heaves almost as instantly as the words escape her, realizing what she has said, and she hurriedly brings a hand up to her mouth, the other gripping the back of her chair to keep herself up as the world spins. Miraculously, the food stays in her stomach, but it is a weak consolation, wretched as she now feels.

Peter has jumped out of his seat of course, and is by her side in a second, but she holds out the hand that had been up to her face, shaking her head, and he keeps his distance as she forces herself to control her breathing again. She's getting pretty good at this.

An endless moment later, when the dizziness has faded just enough for her to stand on her own, she mutters weakly: "I'm gonna go lie down…"

She doesn't look at him as she turns to leave the room.

It is not until she enters the bedroom that she realizes one of her hands has come down instinctively, and is now resting on her belly. Protectively. As she curls up upon the bed, burying her face in his pillow, she only tightens her hold.

…

_Olivia dreams._

_In the distance, Elizabeth is swinging, like she always is in these dreams. And as always, all Olivia can see are the golden locks cascading down her back, when they are not floating behind her as she soars through the skies._

_There was a time when Olivia would relentlessly try to make her way to her, longing for the sight of her face, if not for the feel of her small body against hers. But nights and nights spent walking or running towards the swing set in the middle of that field have taught her that it is futile; there is more keeping her away from her daughter_ than an ethereal distance_, her way ceaselessly blocked by the intangible barrier that separates Life from Death._

_She has learned to leave her greed and desperate wrath behind, whenever she's lucky enough to enter this dream world again. After all, she has no other choice but to content herself with this ephemeral vision of her child, even if it is nothing but a glimpse of what she used to see, here._

_This is one thing she has never shared with Peter. She has never told him about how, during her first pregnancy, she used to have these astonishingly vivid dreams. About how she has always known they weren't really dreams. Or how they have never truly stopped._

_They've just…changed._

_She has never exactly interacted with Elizabeth, in this world, even when she was alive and sound in her womb. Mostly, whenever she would find herself in that dreamscape where everything was so peaceful and bright, she would simply watch her._

_She could have spent the eternity watching her._

_Her daughter would run and spin around, often rolling into the flowers, the entire world filled with the sound of her laughter. Olivia remembers the smiles, the bouquets of tulips thrown into her hands with a wide grin, and then she would be off again; she remembers thinking that this child would surely wear her down if her actual self was anything like this 'astral projection', and like any expecting mother, she had been longing for those days, four or five years down the road, she guessed._

_Those days would never come._

_What Olivia will also always remember, with the most intense ache in her heart, is that Night of September, when it had all shattered; it had been the very first Night Elizabeth hadn't been running, but sitting on the swing instead. And she had looked right at her, no trace of her beautiful smile left on her lips; her face had been sad, almost apologetic. _

_Such a grave look on such a young soul. _

_Olivia had immediately started walking towards her, and soon she was running, realizing that the distance between them remained unchanged. Eventually, Elizabeth had turned her head, and slowly, almost peacefully, she started swinging. No matter how hard she tried, Olivia would never reach her again._

_She had slipped away._

_And she cannot explain why she keeps on having these dreams, even sparse as they are. But she has learned years ago that her mind is different, extraordinary, even, as Walter once put it; people simply seem to linger with her, once she has established some kind of connection with them, willingly or not. That is why she has never been surprised by the occurrence of these dreams in the first place. There is no questioning why the bond she had with her unborn child had been the strongest of all._

_Maybe it's all part of her imagination, her subconscious trying to help her cope, but she doubts it. Elizabeth is never close enough to offer her any real comfort._

_She cannot deny the fact that her very soul fills with relief, that night, when she dreams of her, for the first time in months. She realizes at that instant that ever since she has found out she was pregnant again, part of her had dreaded she would never have these dreams again._

_But there she is, swinging tranquilly, almost in slow motion. Something is different, though, and Olivia finds herself looking away from Elizabeth, her eyes roaming in the distance, even farther away from the swing set. It doesn't take long for her gaze to find the other child, too far for her to make out any distinctive traits, but it doesn't really matter right now. She watches, transfixed, as the toddler waddles between the flowers, pursuing a butterfly, small arms held out. Her eyes move again when something else changes._

_Elizabeth's swing is slowing down, down, down…until finally, she simply jumps down, landing gracefully on her feet; even though her back is turned, Olivia knows she's staring at this other child. And then, as if not a single day had passed, she simply turns around and looks right at her, smiling softly as she starts skipping towards her mother._

_By the time she is within her reach, Olivia has fallen to her knees; if she hadn't been lost in this dream state, she would have been weeping. Everything is too sweet and soft for tears, here. But absolutely nothing is as soft and beautiful as her daughter, she thinks, as she delicately cups her small face in her hands, completely enthralled, and her eyes get lost in the clear blue of her gaze, a color she has been loving so dearly for years now._

_The moment is endless, and she is grateful for the way time seems to have stopped for them, as she drinks in every detail, not only the details in her eyes, but the shape of her nose, the curve of her smile, the freckles on her cheeks. Elizabeth doesn't say a word; she just smiles._

_Eventually, she does move, turning around to look behind her, and Olivia follows her gaze, only realizing now who has toddled all the way up here while she was being mesmerized by her daughter._

_Elizabeth takes a few steps away from her, then; holding out a hand, she reaches out for her brother's. He immediately takes it, and together, they walk to where Olivia still kneels._

_She is now staring at her son with the same bewilderment she had offered Elizabeth, once again knowing that the only reason why she is not literally overwhelmed by this is because she's still dreaming. She moves her gaze from his green eyes and back to the blue of Elizabeth's when she feels her soft fingers on her cheek._

_"It's okay, mommy," she says then, her voice as soft as a breath of wind, and it sounds both so small and so mature. "He'll be okay…"_

_And with the energy Olivia knows she would have always had, had she lived, she then turns to her brother and presses a kiss on the side of his head, in such a way that he stumbles sideways a little; Olivia instinctively reaches out to grab his waist and steady him, but her eyes are on Elizabeth, who is now skipping back to the swing set, her locks bouncing as she goes. Within seconds, she's back on her swing, and with a kick, she's soaring through the air again._

_The incredibly real feel of her child between her hands eventually draws her eyes back to him. There is a quietness about him, so very different from the vitality of his sister, that instantly makes Olivia want to cradle him in her arms, and just let time go by; somehow, she knows that the weight of him against her will soothe the throbbing ache and perpetual longing Elizabeth has left in her, though it is one wound nothing will ever truly heal ._

_The time for such moments has not come yet, for this is still just a dream._

_She brings one of her hands up instead, and gently runs her fingers through his blond curls, a trait both her children have inherited from their father. And for a moment there, the corner of eyes still taking in the slow movements of the swing as she looks into her son's eyes, she feels almost at peace._

Olivia wakes up.

For a few distressing seconds, she feels completely lost, her mind still filled with vibrant images from her dream, all the while trying to refocus on reality; she can hardly breathe again. It's another few seconds before she realizes her labored breathing is caused by the half-muffled sobs coming out of her in spasms, but by the time she becomes aware of it, everything finally seems to have crashed down upon her.

She is so powerless against that smothering wave that all she can do is let it roll over her, as it squeezes her heart and lungs. It is as if everything she has been holding back for weeks, if not years, is pouring out of her, and she's overwhelmed not only with grief, but also with love and sheer terror for her baby, the one alive in her womb, the one she now feels in every fiber of her being, the one she might lose, too.

She eventually becomes aware of Peter's body against hers; he has pinned himself against her back, wrapped himself around her. She feels his lips on the back of her neck, when he's not whispering words of comfort she cannot make out. It is not the first time she has awoken in tears, in the eight years they've been together; nightmares are far from being a rarity in their lives. When it isn't her, it's him, and she's always here for him, the way he is for her now, with soft caresses and quiet murmurs, because what else is there to do?

She stops shaking after a while, her body relaxing in his embrace, and without the uneven sound of her breathing, which is now back to a slower and deeper pace, the silence surrounding them is almost compact. He will not ask what she dreamed about; they never ask. The other will always listen, if they decide to share, but none of them ever prod.

When she turns around in his arms and brings her face close to his, she gets lost in his eyes, seeing him so clearly despite the darkness of the room. Almost instinctively, she knows, one of his hands comes up to her face to cup her cheek, and he tenderly wipes away the wetness off her skin; it's a gesture of comfort she has come to love and need just as much as the feel of his eyes bearing into hers.

He's worried and hurting for her, she sees it on his face, in everything he doesn't need to say. She wishes she could reassure him, but she doesn't like to lie.

There is one thing she can do, though.

Her right hand leaves the warmth of his chest to come up, covering his fingers still splayed on her face with hers, slowly intertwining them. She then gently brings their hands down, until his palm is pressed upon the small, yet firm curve of her belly.

This is so simple, yet it is enough to cause him to swallow hard, his eyes searching her face; it is the first time she has allowed him that kind of close, affectionate gesture towards their unborn child. Not that he has tried, but he knows her well enough to know what he should or shouldn't do, especially in this case, lost as she has been.

At times, she still wonders if she really deserves such a kind, caring man.

But at that instant, feeling the warmth of his palm sinking into her flesh, and the way his fingers dig into the tense skin ever so slightly, she is simply grateful to have him.

And _him_.

"It's a boy..." She whispers against his lips, squeezing his fingers over the bump hiding their precious second chance, and she almost feels the shudder that goes through his entire body, as the meaning of her words sinks in.

And all she sees is his joy.

His face breaks into a bewildered grin, and the emotion in his eyes and on his every trait is so genuine that she feels tears prickling in her eyes again.

"It's a boy..." he repeats, and his awe resonates clearly in these three whispered words. Mere seconds later, he's hugging her again, holding her tight and breathing her in, nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck; he's murmuring the words again and again against her skin.

She closes her eyes, then, clinging to him just as intensely, allowing herself to forget her pain and her fears just for a moment, simply wanting to share his happiness.

And as she lets herself relax into his warmth, on more than one level, her mind starts to fill with colors.

One color in particular stands out from all the others, until eventually, all she sees is the most beautiful shade of blue.

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I'll be nice and give you real fluff next ;-D Reviews are love!


	3. III

**A/N: **Hi everybody! First of all, I wanted to apologize for taking so long to update this story. What can I say, I'm human, I'm very busy, and I get distracted writing other things :p I have no intention of stopping this fic, though, no matter how long it takes me (because I'm planning on continuing my other fic as well). I also have a big season 4 P/O oneshot in the writing, so hopefully I'll publish that one soon as well :)

Thank you to everybody who read and reviewed! As I said (forever ago) this is a fluffy chapter, because we all need fluff right now *curls up in a ball*

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>III<strong>

* * *

><p><em>(July 2018)<em>

Even though it is nearing 10am, the room is almost pitch-dark when Olivia enters it, the curtains covering the window keeping the sun from filling it with daylight. She doesn't close the door behind her, letting the light from the hallway slip in so that she can actually see where she's going as she approaches the bed.

As she expected, Ella is still curled up under the covers, though Olivia is sure she just saw her crack an eye open. Without a word, she lies down on the bed next to her niece, as always all too aware of the extra weight around her middle section when she rolls onto her side. She remains quiet for a while, simply staring at Ella's face as she pretends to be sleeping, wondering if she's going to reopen her eyes. Unsurprisingly (and surely a bit stubbornly), she doesn't, which leads Olivia to eventually speak.

"You know, I should have come wake you up around 6," she says softly with a smile. "That's what you used to do to me when you were four."

Ella finally opens an eye, then the other. She doesn't smile back, though, as she shrugs under the covers. "I don't think I was even sleeping at 6 anyway..." she mutters unhappily, her eyes already moving away from her aunt's, getting lost in the distance.

Olivia can hardly bear the sight of her in that state, desperate to help her escape her bubble of melancholy and grief. But there is not much she can do, in that case. Two days ago, it had been three years since Rachel's death, and Olivia's desire to be strong for Ella is the only reason why she hasn't let herself be overwhelmed with grief as well…and of course, Peter being there for them always helps.

Some would say (Olivia included) that he can get a little _too_ caring at times, but in that kind of situation, there is no denying that his warm hugs and soft eyes are a welcome help. Plus, he always insists on cooking fancy meals, and even if Olivia doesn't comment on it, she knows this habit of 'food for comfort' comes from Walter.

He also gets very fond of giving foot massages -which are undoubtedly better than his back massages, and that's another habit Olivia can't complain about.

Actually, Peter is the one who came up with the idea that has led her in Ella's room in the first place. Discussing over breakfast, they both agreed that they couldn't let their niece spend another day locked up in the dark without trying to distract her.

Olivia brings one of her hands up to Ella's face, gently tucking strands of brown hair behind her ear; she almost expects her to slap her fingers away –because as hard as it is for her to accept most of the time, her niece is _not_ four anymore, but fourteen, therefore less likely to appreciate that kind of gesture.

But Ella remains still and quiet, though Olivia can't help but notice how her eyes get shinier, more watery, and she remembers then how Rachel used to do the exact same thing.

"Peter and I are going to start painting the nursery today," Olivia says then, a little too cheerfully, trying to ignore the lump in her own throat. "I thought you might want to help us."

This _definitely _was Peter's idea.

Now twenty weeks pregnant, Olivia is only halfway through her pregnancy, and starting working on the nursery _now_ seems way too early, if you asked her. But as Peter pointed out, this is a hard week for Ella –as well as for herself, and it would be the perfect distraction for everybody. Plus, it is a fact that there must be a strong artistic gene floating around in the Dunham's DNA, because just like her aunt, Ella is naturally gifted when it comes to drawing and painting, even more than Olivia ever was.

_"The thought of decorating her cousin's room herself will get her out of bed, trust me,_" Peter was telling her less than an hour ago, just before he went out to go buy paint and all the material needed.

Once again, he was right.

Ella finally looks back up at Olivia, her curiosity clearly piqued. "You mean, like a mural or something?"

Olivia smiles, her fingers still running slowly throw her hair, a gesture that now feels comforting to them both. "Sure. Well, we have to put the first coat of paint on, today, the boring part, but I'd love to brainstorm ideas for a mural with you. You still have almost two long months of nothing to do before going back to school, I think that should keep us occupy for a while. We could paint it together, while we order Peter around."

Ella finally smiles back, and it looks sincere. "That would be cool," she says with a shrug, and Olivia chuckles softly.

"Ah, well, as long as it's _cool_, we're good. I don't want you to start school by telling your friends you spent your summer doing uncool stuffs with your pregnant aunt."

Saying those words, she finally moves her hand from Ella's face, putting it back on her belly, something she does constantly these days. Ella's eyes follow her movement, before looking back up at her. "Can I touch it?" She asks almost timidly, though she hears the hint of excitement in her voice.

Olivia's grin widens a little more; she cannot believe how inquisitive –not to say completely enamored, Ella is about this baby already. Obviously, it is all kind of endearing.

"Sure," she says again, scooching herself up and rearranging the pillows to lean against them, giving Ella better access.

Most of the time, protective as she feels about her unborn child, Olivia has a hard time letting anyone probe her in any way. Even her own doctor has received a few dark looks from her when he didn't ask permission first before touching her belly . The man goes by the name of Stephan Anderson, and even though he's one _tall_, rather imposing man, there is a reason why Peter jokingly referred to him as 'Doctor Bear' once –that was until Olivia's glare discouraged him to do that again.

She never feels any reluctance when it comes to Peter or Ella, though.

"It's still going to be as uneventful as the last time," she points out as Ella presses her palm lightly on her shirt, the fabric stretched over her round stomach.

"He's still not kicking?" Ella asks, obviously hopeful.

"Not yet," Olivia answers. "I feel some movement, mostly flutters, but no real kick yet."

"Is it normal?" Ella distractedly asks next, gently taping her fingers over her bump, as if hoping it will induce something noticeable.

It is a genuine question, of course, her niece still blissfully ignorant of all the reasons that lead Olivia to ask herself the very same question way too often, about pretty much everything regarding her pregnancy.

She does her best to keep on smiling, though, despite the inevitable ache that briefly squeezes her heart upon hearing these words.

"Well, statistically speaking, I could have been feeling him kick for two weeks now, but every baby is different, so yeah, it's normal."

_"Everything is fine, Olivia,"_ Dr. Anderson was telling her calmly only two days ago when she called him to ask him the exact same thing. _"Your baby is just calmer than others; there is nothing to worry about. The kicks will come soon enough. Try and relax, remember what I told you about stress hormones."_

Olivia loves her new doctor, who has so far been very understanding as well as professional regarding her excessive worries, but more often than not, she wishes people would understand she cannot simply _turn off_ her stress. Each day brings her closer to delivering a healthy child, somewhere down the road, but at the same time, it brings her closer to the stage of her pregnancy when she had lost her baby girl. In all honesty, she doesn't know how she is supposed not to stress things out.

Ella is still completely unaware of everything that goes on in Olivia's head, and that is for the best.

Except when she says things like:

"Maybe he's already kicking and you just don't know what it's supposed to feel like?"

Ella was clearly still simply musing, but Olivia has to close her eyes as her emotions start running high again; she is so prone to sudden rush of _feelings_ these days, the best as much as the worst, it's almost as embarrassing as it is annoying.

"What's wrong?" Ella quickly asks, and her voice is ringing with worry now, having apparently noticed her aunt's distress.

Olivia forces herself to reopen her eyes, instantly hating the troubled expression on Ella's face. She smiles at her, then, trying to look reassuring, even though the painful lump is back in her throat, as well as a faint nausea, and she shakes her head slightly. Resting one of her hands next to Ella's, she focuses on that very strong feeling she feels within her, like thousands of threads intertwined tightly, going from one mind to another, or maybe from soul to soul.

Because that connection proves her that, even if she is longing for the kicks that will give her a tangible evidence that everything is going well, ultimately, she already knows it.

He's okay.

"Believe me," she says softly, and even though the smile she offers her niece is tinged with sadness, it's almost sincere. "I'll know what it feels like."

…

"Thomas."

"No."

"Alexander?"

"No."

"Edward? Jacob?"

"Oh please."

"Is it…Richard?"

"Seriously? Who would be crazy enough to still call their kid _Richard_? And stop it, I won't tell you anything anyway."

"Now young lady, you know I cannot _not_ investigate. I need to know everything about that boy."

"So you can what, use all your weird connections to dig up a file or something?"

Olivia has to chuckle at that; though she keeps her focus on the part of the wall she's painting, she's genuinely amused by Peter's and Ella's banters.

"High school boys are the worst," Peter counters wittily. "Trust me, I was one of them."

"Who said he was in high school?"

These words cause Olivia to stop smiling, and she quickly turns around to stare at her niece, who rapidly starts to look very cornered, as Peter offers her a similar unamused glare.

"You said he used to be in your math class," Olivia almost shrieks. "Don't tell me he's a college boy, they are worse than the high school ones by far."

Ella is now very red, her paint roller frozen against the wall, and she opens her mouth to say something, but Peter is faster.

"_Timothy_," he exclaims then, victorious, shaking his own roller with so much glee that he sprinkles everybody with white paint, which earns him unhappy grunts. "Isn't that the name of the guy who used to help you with math?"

Judging by the now crimson color of Ella's face, it is. She looks both furious and completely mortified as she stops covering her face from the raining paint.

Peter turns to Olivia, offering her a cocky smile. "We're safe, honey, he's a nerd."

"He's not a nerd!" Ella protests, and the room is suddenly filled with a sound Olivia is starting to highly dislike. What is it with kids these days and their horrible ringtones? Ella promptly drops her roller to pick up her phone. "Hey Sara, thank _god_ you called," she greets her friend dramatically, already making her way out of the room without a single glance toward them. "Nah, I'm still stuck at my aunt's and uncle's house, they're making me paint, and it _sucks_." And then she is gone.

Olivia turns to Peter, scowling at him. "Did you hear that? She is now _stuck_ with us," she grumbles. "I was trying to avoid that. Couldn't you just let it go?"

He doesn't look remotely guilty, and he's still smiling smugly as he walks to the other end of the room. "She'll love us again in half an hour, and now, we can put the music back on without her complaining about it." And he does just that, turning the volume up.

It's one of his oldest records, and Olivia can understand why a teenager like Ella wouldn't appreciate his choice –though she has to admit she herself always enjoys Peter's taste when it comes to music.

He almost hops back to her then, looking way too childish, but she cannot help but grin stupidly at his goofy smile. It is his turn to drop his paint roller on the plastic covered floor, one of his arms quickly encircling her waist while his other hand comes up to her face.

"You have paint all over you," he chuckles, trying to wipe the drops away with his thumb.

"I wonder whose fault that is," she replies sarcastically, using her free hand to do the same, attempting to scratch some of the white paint off his stubble. "That was so clever of you, to spray your pregnant wife with toxic paint."

He offers her an intent look. "Really? Guess who spent twenty-five minutes this morning annoying the hell out of that poor guy at the store, just to make sure he gave me the less toxic paint of all?"

"Uhm, my over-caring husband?"

He huffs, falsely annoyed. "You are a woman full of contradictions," he sighs, his hand leaving her face to grab her roller and make it join the others on the ground so he can get a better grip on her waist; within seconds, he's swiftly making them swirl, causing her to chuckle as she clings to him, completely off balance; her grin dissolves into a sweet smile when he says in her ear: "And yet, that's one of the reasons why I love you."

She places a kiss upon his shoulder, still trying to adjust to his swaying movements, before raising her head to look at him. "And there I thought you loved me for my cooking skills."

He doesn't even try to stifle his laugh. "What skills?" He asks perplexedly.

"Hey, I'm getting better," she protests, scowling again. "Remember that time when you said I-"

But she suddenly stops. Her eyes instantly leave his as her grip on him tightens significantly, her body instinctively tensing, and she promptly brings a hand down to her stomach.

"Olivia?" He immediately asks, abruptly halting their dance, and all trace of playfulness is gone from his tone, replaced by instant worry. "What is it?"

She looks back up at him, and his concern is an undeniable proof that she is not the only one getting easily anxious these days, even if he usually does a very good job at masking it.

But her face breaks into a dazed grin, then, and he instantly relaxes. "He just kicked," she breathes out.

She doesn't even have to offer.

A second later, he has slid his hand under her shirt, pressing his palm firmly over her tense skin, and she covers his fingers with hers, waiting. Their eyes are still locked together, but they are both solely focused on what is going on inside of her rather than on each other. Even though her body is tingling in the aftermath of this unexpected kick, causing her heart to thump wildly in her chest, she doubts l it will happen again so soon, or that Peter will be able to feel it just yet.

But as soon as this thought crosses her mind, the sensation grips her again, that definite twitch within her womb, right near where Peter's hand is resting, and the look of elation that lights up his entire face leaves no doubts that he has felt it too.

"He's kicking," he says with a delighted grin, but his smile quickly falters as he tilts his head, focusing back on her; he brings his other hand back up to her cheek, offering her a warm, knowing look. "C'mon," he says softly. "Don't cry…"

She sniffs, wiping her nose very gracefully as she closes her eyes, shaking her head. "These are good tears," she manages to articulate in a ridiculously wobbly voice, feeling shaky, hormonal and overwhelmed.

Her body sinks into his as he circles her in his arms again. She feels his lips upon her forehead as he starts to sway them slowly again, on the spot this time, in a rocking, soothing motion. All she can do is hug him back, breathing in his scent and feeling more elated than ever when the movement within her starts again.

_He's okay_, she repeats to herself. _He's okay he's okay he's okay he's okay he's okay…_

"Are you two gonna start making out again?" Ella's voice suddenly comes from the doorway, over the music. "Because if you are, let me know now so I can go get bleach for my eyes."

* * *

><p>TBC...<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I just realized that all my chapters end with them hugging so far...and I think I'll keep that trend going for a while XD Like I said, cheesy fluff is cheesy, but I'll make it up to myself with the next part, which will not be fluffy at all haha. Reviews might definitely help keep me focused on this a little while longer XD


	4. IV

**A/N: **Hi everyone! Once again, so sorry about the delay :-S But my muse is back, and my semester is almost done, so now that I got this part of my system, the next one(s) should come definitely faster!

As always, thank you all so very much for your reviews; this story is special to me, so I'm glad to know others are enjoying it ;)

And as always, this is unbetaed. Oh, and sad. Did I mention sad?

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>(September 2018)<em>

It's a beautiful day.

It is sunny and warm, yet not too warm; it is as if the hot humidity of summer has stayed trapped in August, allowing September to enjoy its last three weeks of warmth before fall takes over. The wind blows softly through the trees, ruffling leaves that are still firmly attached to their branches, creating a mellow, shivering sound as it moves around her. It's a beautiful day, the kind of day that motivates parents to take their children out to the park. It is yet another act of normality that has been taken away from her.

Taken away, then handed back to her, completely distorted.

Olivia is oblivious to the quiet beauty that surrounds her, from the bright blue sky over head, to the rich grass on the ground, for today will never be a beautiful day.

Today, she visits a cemetery. That is the only way left for her to be close to her child, now. Physically speaking, at least.

Getting _there_ is always a slow, excruciating walk. She's even slower than usual, this time, as she feels weighted down by a strenuous heaviness that isn't simply metaphorical anymore. About halfway to her destination, the earth tilts upward slightly, and she's almost breathless by the time she reaches the height of this ridiculously small slope, her intakes of air louder than they should be. The physical aspects that are to be expected during the third trimester of pregnancy are truly aggravating. She hated this the first time, and she has no doubt she is going to despise it even more this time around.

Now twenty-eight weeks pregnant, she has officially entered said trimester, and she knows the weeks ahead are going to be agonizing, in every possible way. She has never been one to like feeling incapacitated, for any reason, and having a growing child inside of you definitely causes incapacities. And there is no escaping this reality: she's only going to get bigger and _bigger_, more exhausted and achy with every passing day, not to mention that constant anxiety that twists her gut without a rest.

She feels weakened, looks weakened, and she hates it.

Just two days ago, for example, she was waiting in line at the store, and the lady in front of her –a small woman who must have been nearing ninety years of age, insisted on letting her go first, cooing over her extended stomach. It had taken Olivia several similar situations to accept the fact that people tend to feel truly offended on a personal level when you refuse that kind of offer; and so she had gritted her teeth and faked a grateful smile as she pushed her items in front of the lady's. That's another thing that is only going to get worse with time, people looking at her as if she was a feeble little thing ready to faint at any given moment.

It doesn't help that she looks so huge already, carrying all in front. Every time Peter hears her complain about it, he likes to remind her that it's fairly common for women carrying boys, according to the two hundred pregnancy books he has read in the past few months. All she knows is that if she goes full term –_and she will she will she will she will_, she's going to give birth to one big baby.

Only a few hours ago, she had been in her doctor's office, and he had confirmed that her baby definitely still is '_above the curve_', meaning that he's above average in size and hypothetical weight. These are actually _good_ signs, signs of health, and strength. But Olivia doesn't take these as a guarantee that everything will be fine anymore. Exactly four years ago today, she was learning the hard way –the most unspeakable way, that carrying a healthy child does not necessarily lead to a happy ending.

It doesn't prevent the worst from happening.

That is why she met with her doctor, this morning, even though she didn't have an appointment. He found room for her without any complains, understanding her fears, and doing his best to keep them from blowing out of proportion. From the moment she awoke on this dreadful day after only a few hours of troubled sleep, she was plagued with terror, on top of the smothering pain of grief she had been expecting. No matter how often she felt her baby move within her, she knew she wouldn't be able to really breathe until she was told that everything was still fine.

And everything is fine, oh so _fine_.

It is so incredibly hard to believe, though, as she finally reaches her destination, and stops in front of the grave.

As always, she simply _stands_ there. What other options does she have? This is such a masochist thing to do, to come here every year and think restlessly about the worst, memories that are never distant enough coming back so clearly that the pain becomes just as raw as it was on that day. But she cannot stay away either. She simply can't.

Some people talk to their loved one in cemeteries, but she was never one of these people. Because what could she say, really?

_I'm sorry_

_It's beautiful out, today, I wish you could be here_

_I'm scared_

_Why_

_I miss you_

_Where are you_

_He looks like you_

"_He looks like her…"_

These are the words she had said very softly this morning, her eyes glued to the screen on which the image of her son was depicted. Paranoid as she felt, she had drunk a small cup of coffee before driving there, the caffeine causing him to be unusually energetic, so that a moving arm kept on blocking the view of his face. But one glance had been enough.

There were still three months to go, and yet every detail of his face was already so definite, so clear and beautiful, enhanced by the high-tech used to look at what was going on inside her womb.

She had stared, unable not to remember another sleeping face that looked so similar.

"_Where is Peter?"_

She wished she could have ignored this question her doctor eventually asked after a long, interminable minute of silence. His voice was soft, genuinely inquisitive. And why wouldn't he be? So far, Peter had always been present whenever they met with Dr. Anderson. There was no questioning why someone would assume her husband should be by her side, _today_.

When she finally looked away from the screen to meet this kind man's eyes, she offered him a smile that undoubtedly reflected some of that unspoken pain and sadness she so rarely spoke of.

"_Peter is never really around on September 5__th__," she _admitted then with a small shrug, meant to make it seem unimportant. But her voice and entire body language betrayed her, quivering with quiet agony_. "Not since that day four years ago, anyway..."_

Just like she had wanted to ignore her doctor's words a minute ago, she then felt the urge to explain Peter's motives, to defend him.

He has his reasons, she doesn't blame him. She has never blamed him, and never will.

She knows him well enough to understand how his defense mechanisms work, to know what has started it all, what has led him to be so prone to _pretending_ instead of acknowledging. He was only a boy when he was forced to make himself believe the world he lived in was the world he had always known.

Lies.

Peter hides behind the lies he tells himself, and she doubts he's even completely aware of it.

All she knows is that for the last four years, they have both been pretending. She wonders at times if he remembers at all. Even though she knows he does, of course he does, she also knows how good he is at burying the pain. Maybe that's why she murmured these words, in the middle of the night, when she was unable to go back to sleep.

"_Do you remember her?"_

He didn't answer; she didn't expect him to. Maybe he was asleep, maybe he wasn't. The way they were lying in bed didn't allow her to see his face anyway, or to feel him at all, their bodies separated by an icy space they never seemed able to fill on this day.

She didn't expect an answer, but the lack of response hurt anyway. Everything hurt.

She wishes she could bury it all away, too.

The memories of this day are unbearable.

What she recalls of the delivery isn't even the worst of it; she was in so much pain back then, exhausted to her very core, that she seems to have blacked out most of it. The hours that followed are still crystal clear in her mind, though; she remembers every minute of this ridiculously minuscule amount of time they had with their child.

_She_ had been asleep all along, the kind of sleep from which there is no awakening. It hardly mattered at the time, not in that instant, when Olivia was so desperate to hold on to her that she was able to make herself believe her baby was simply sleeping, just sleeping… But reality had caught up with them, as it always does. Letting them take her away was like losing her all over again. And then there was the funeral, and going home without their child, facing a place that was already crowded with traces of _her_, even though she would never come home.

It is a pain that never ends.

No, she doesn't blame Peter for not being able to look her in the eyes on this day, when this pain is too raw for them to pretend properly, because they see it all, feel it all again, and it's excruciating.

But she cannot ignore the fact that she wishes silence wasn't so _thick_. She has accepted long ago that they would not talk about her, but she hoped this pregnancy would break that unspoken seal, that Elizabeth would become more than the fear that gripped both of their hearts, more than a shattered illusion, or a desperate cry during arguments. She hoped they would acknowledge what they almost had.

But she is seven months pregnant, now, and Peter's inability to talk about her is still as strong; she can't bring herself to force it upon him. Because what good can come from cornering him into this against his will?

That's why she let him get up this morning, pretending some more, feigning sleep so he could escape the house without having to talk to her, like he always did; she was left alone in their bed, trembling and inconsolable, and all she could do was focus on the regular movements she felt within her, telling herself _he_ was okay, until she gave in and called her doctor.

And now she stands there, at her grave, staring at her name carved upon the stone, and all she wants to do is apologize for her weakness, for their silence.

She wants to promise her they're not replacing her. She wants to explain that, when people ask her if she's expecting her first child and she always deviates the subject, it's not because she has forgotten her, but because she cannot lie, let alone tell these strangers how she has failed to protect her.

Standing there with her eyes soon closed and her arms tightly wrapped around herself is the only thing she can do, as she begs her legs not to give up on her.

"What kind of father am I?"

At first, she almost thinks she's imagining the voice –it wouldn't be the first time she would hear him speak when he's not physically there. But she instinctively reacts to the sound of Peter's voice, reopening her eyes and turning slowly on the spot, and it is definitely not a projection of him that stands there, a few feet away from her.

No, this is her husband, looking sickly and shaky, his skin now an odd ashy color, bloodshot eyes contrasting with the dark shadows under them. She wishes she could say she has never seen him looking this miserable before, but sadly enough, she has. Too many times.

She is instantly torn between relief at the sight of him, and exacerbated pain, because that is one sight that breaks her heart, especially when she realizes what he has just asked her.

She is distressed, all of her efforts to stay in control of her emotions crumbling, and the baby feels it. She senses his own anguish growing, and forces herself to concentrate on sending him reassuring thoughts, focusing on the solace Peter's presence alone brings her.

_It's okay,_ she thinks, _he's here, I'm okay_

Peter is not.

He has taken a few steps closer, but he remains too far for her to reach for him, and she doesn't trust her legs to let her walk to him. His eyes haven't left her face, and god he looks more wretched by the second.

"You know, all my life, I promised myself I would never be like Walter," he says then, and his voice is hoarse and quivery, a distraught tone she has come to associate with grief through the years, always hoping she will never have to hear it again. After a pause, he continues. "Growing up, I resented him so much…I thought he was the worst father in the world, and I swore I would never be like him. And I'm not. I'm the opposite of him." His eyes leave her face, then, his gaze focusing on what she knows is the grave at her feet. "He messed up and started a chain of destruction, but he did it all because he loved me too much to let me go. All I have managed to do so far is kill my own son, and spend the last few years pretending our daughter never existed."

"Peter…" she almost chokes out his name, unable to bear the waves of agony oozing out of him, but he shakes his head, eyes closed, as he swallows convulsively.

"I wish I didn't remember her, Olivia," he says then, shamefully, admitting that he _had_ heard her question, last night. "And I've tried, to forget. I've tried so hard, because trying to keep the thought of her alive made me feel like I was going insane. And I've tried coming here, too, so many times…but I just couldn't. So I took the easy way out. I ran, like I always do."

"You're not running today," she points out softly, and he finally raises his head again to look at her.

He looks so lost, all she wants to do is wrap him in her arms and tell him she knows; tell him she understands. But that space is still there, between them, though she feels it getting smaller and smaller as he takes another step towards her, then another.

"You're the reason I'm here," he admits as he stops again, very close to her now. "I realized…I let my fears get the best of me. But you don't." She shakes her head to contradict him but he raises a hand, shaking his head too, tiredly. "You don't, Olivia." He insists, emphatically. "I'm not saying you're not afraid; anyone in your situation would be. But you face these fears every day. I know what it costs you, to go through this pregnancy, and yet, you never complain. You just do it, and you only think of him."

His raised hand has found its way to her cheek, now, his thumb gently brushing away a tear she hasn't even felt rolling down, trapped in the intensity of his gaze.

"I thought…if you do all of this for him, for our family, I can do it too. Because I owe it to you. And I owe it to him." His eyes move, then, looking downwards again. "Most of all, I owe it to her. I owe it to our daughter."

He lets go of her face, his gaze still fixed on the tombstone, and slowly, he kneels in front of it. For once, she ignores the tears now streaming down her face; she lets them run their course, curling her fingers in his hair instead, almost instinctively, the only gesture of comfort she can manage right now, as he reveals what he has been holding in his other hand the whole time, unnoticed.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers then, starting to lay the flowers on the ground, one by one, all four of them. Four white tulips, one for each year she hasn't spent with them. "I promise I'll do better, sweetheart."

When Olivia realizes that he's not speaking to her, but to Elizabeth, the last of her strength vanishes, and pain crashes over her. She doesn't even have time to worry about the possibility that she might collapse under this sorrowful weight she can't hide anymore, because as always, Peter and she are in perfect synch, even in moments like this one. Or rather _especially_ in moments like this one, now that this unbearable space between them has gone.

He's back on his feet within seconds, and in a blur, they're clinging to each other, and their grip is nothing short of desperate, because what else can they do? She holds on tight to his jacket, burying her face against his neck as she feels his fingers twist in her hair, and the comforting pressure of his lips upon her head, his other arm holding her solidly, increasing the feel of her extended stomach against him.

And standing there upon their daughter's grave, with their son still safe and sound within her womb, Olivia knows this is as close to complete as their family will ever be.

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I know, I know. Things will get better I swear, I just felt this was needed in the progression of their story.

Next part, Astrid gets married soooo formal!wear XD No champagne this time though, because Olivia will be ready to pop :p

Reviews are always loved :)


	5. V

**A/N: **As promised, here comes a definitely fluffier part. It's not very long, but it should make up from the angst in part IV xD

Thank you all so much for reading, and reviewing, I hope you enjoy this one :))

* * *

><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>V.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>(October 2018)<em>

For the third time today, her baby has the hiccups.

Olivia doesn't usually mind. He's been having them for a few weeks, now, and she knows it's a good sign, that it means his lungs are developing correctly; the sensation itself doesn't bother her either, even when it happens in the middle of the night and she's "trying" to sleep.

The only reason why she minds at that instant is because whenever he gets the hiccups, he also gets more active, and right now, all she wants is get a few minutes of peace. Less than half an hour ago, he was sleeping soundly; she's sure of it, because when he's asleep, that's when she _feels_ him the most, his young and innocent mind completely open to hers. She has isolated herself in the hope that focusing solely on him would help her calm down. It usually works.

She has been doing it more and more often, these days, simply letting go of everything and everyone surrounding her, losing herself in the indescribable feel of that intense bond that links her to her son in so many ways. Peter likes to say she always looks a bit high whenever she does it randomly, in the middle of the day. Apparently, her eyes tend to get glassy, and she looks '_completely out of it_', to quote his words. Other than for these few comments, he generally doesn't say anything about it.

It is hardly harmful, anyway. And she couldn't stop herself from doing it, even if she really wanted to. It has become her way of making sure he's still hanging on strong in there, and she has been checking quite often this week, her mind ready to cling onto his if she ever feels him slip away. But he's so relaxed and unworried -as long as_ she_ doesn't let her stress affect him, that it is a real relief for her to let his quietude soothe her.

It isn't going to happen _now_, though, that much is becoming obvious. She has been trying to enter this particular state of trance for the past few minutes, but he keeps moving around, as if buzzed by the regular little spasms caused by his hiccups; it's almost like he's trying to tell her to stop nudging him all the time.

Obviously, he's going to be as stubborn as his father.

And so she has no other choice but to refocus on what is happening around her, instead of what is going on inside her womb. Even secluded as she is in the women's restroom, she can still hear the music coming from the party room, the band now playing something rather rhythmic.

When the music suddenly becomes much louder and clearer, she knows someone is coming in. She keeps her eyes closed, though. Whoever that is, they are going to spot her on the bench any second, now –she's pretty hard to miss these days, and ask her if she's okay. Because a hugely pregnant woman wouldnt possibly be sitting alone in the restroom if she was okay.

But the question never comes, neither does the sound of heels on tiles she was expecting. The door now closed again, the music has gone back to a distant background, and the sound of these walking feet is unmistakable, low, strong, and padded.

These are _man_'s shoes.

She opens her eyes at last, and is not surprised in the least when her gaze instantly locks with the blue of his.

"You know this is the ladies room, right?" she asks him with a small smile, instantly comforted by his presence alone.

He doesn't smile back, even though his eyes are soft and kind, as he joins her at the bench. "And do _you_ realize you've been in there for almost twenty minutes?"

She's not surprised he knew she was in the bathroom the whole time, despite the fact that he'd left their table a while ago, now, to go be his social self –after she assured him a few dozen times she didn't mind just sitting there like a beached whale. He had obviously kept an eye on her. No matter how hard they both try to stay calm this week, they are equally apprehensive. Of course, he has noticed, and obviously worried when she didn't come out of the room.

He doesn't sit down next to her, or stands tall in front of her. He crouches down instead, slipping a hand under the hem of her dress to rest it on her knee. And she simply loves this man, she decides then, their eyes still locked, for knowing her so well. He's aware of how frustrated she is at being forced to be sitting pretty much constantly these days, and avoids hovering over her as much as possible, always trying to come at her level instead.

"You okay?" He asks softly.

There comes the question she has been dreading, but she doesn't mind it as much when he's the one asking it. Plus, she doesn't have to lie to him.

She shakes her head. "People exhaust me," she admits, defeated, which earns her a small smirk from him, his fingers squeezing her knee comfortingly. "No, seriously," she insists. "People got _married_ today, and yet, I seem to be the greatest attraction of the night. Or the biggest, at least. All I'm doing is sit there with my glass of water, and they all seem drawn to me, all too ready to try and put their hands on me."

He's truly smiling now, but she knows it's not because he finds the situation amusing, or thinks she's overreacting. If he has been watching her like she knows he has, he must have noticed how many people have taken _his_ sit in his absence, all trying to make small talk or to invade her personal space, making her wish for her gun.

"I know they're annoying, but you can't blame them, honey," he tells her softly. "You're-"

"I'm _pregnant_, I know," she cuts him bluntly. "But I don't get what the big deal is, and they clearly have no idea how uncomfortable this is. I'm enormous, I'm achy, I'm tired and hormonal, I have to pee every twelve minutes, my feet hurt in these shoes, and I'm pretty sure I couldn't get off this bench by myself even if I wanted to."

"You're gorgeous," Peter tells her, categorically, his eyes just as dead serious as his tone. But his face softens when he adds: "I know you hate to hear it, but you really have been gifted with that mystical glow."

He's only hoping to get her to roll her eyes and relax a little over it all, as it is no mystery that this is one of these statements she always snorts at. But she hardly hears his words, this time, because there's more bothering her than these people being obnoxious and ignorant. There's always more.

She closes her eyes, shaking her head again, almost imperceptibly."They keep asking me how far along I am..." she whispers, trying hard to get a hold of her emotions, something that has become so incredibly difficult to do lately.

She _knows_ how far along she is, she doesn't need these complete strangers to remind her of it every two minutes.

She's exactly thirty-five weeks pregnant; thirty-five weeks and three days, to be precise. In other words, she has reached that point when her baby girl died during her first pregnancy, and every time someone asks her that question, she feels the urge to simply retreat into her own mind and hold on to her son as tight as possible.

For the next five weeks.

"Next time someone asks you, ask _them_ when they are due. That should shut them up."

She reopens her eyes to meet Peter's, and all she sees is warmth and understanding; she can't help but chuckle at his words. "That would be _rude_," she notes, sarcastically.

He shrugs. "So is trying to put their filthy hands on our son's hiding place."

She's smiling now, and it's an honest smile, her heart filled with gratitude. She cups his cheek in her hand, grazing his stubble with the nail of her thumb. "What would I do without you?"

He offers her a cocky smile of his own. "Right now, you would be stuck on this bench for the rest of the night."

And on these words, his hand leave her knee to go grab her elbow, doing the same on the other side, and she clings to his strong arms as he helps her stand back up. She huffs and puffs, and then chuckles again when he helps her smooth her dress out and lets his hand wander over her backside.

"And _that_ isn't rude?" she asks him teasingly.

"Didn't you hear me say you were gorgeous?" He asks, just as playfully. "I thought that would grant me access to any part of you for at least ten minutes."

She lets out an unamused snort. "Yeah, right. I know all your books say you have to be sweet to me, and reassure me constantly that I am sexy and desirable, but you don't have to lie on my behalf."

He sighs loudly, bringing her hand up to his lips to kiss her knuckles, before turning her in his arms, directing her steps until they are both standing in front of the long mirror that covers the wall over the sinks. She takes in their reflection, still not used to this new 'look' on her; she has changed so much, it's just unsettling, even if it has all happened over a period of almost nine months, now.

And her stomach and breasts aren't the only parts of her that have gained some volume; even her face seems rounder. What small amount of make-up she has felt brave enough to apply on herself today isn't enough to mask her exhaustion and worry lines. Peter's tired, too, she can't help but think, and it's not surprising, seeing how none of them is really able to sleep soundly this week, unconsciously sleeping in shifts, one of them always awake and aware.

Tired or not, her husband looks absolutely handsome in his tux, as always.

Truth be told, she doesn't care much about how she looks like right now, all too happy to simply nestle in his arms. She has always loved how perfectly their bodies fit together. Even now, when hugging the other way around has become rather impossible due to her gigantesque belly, she feels right at home with her back pinned to his chest and his arms around her, both his hands joined under her bump.

As she gets plumper and plumper, he only seems to be getting taller, and she's pretty sure there must me a scientific explanation for this occurrence. Almost instinctively, her left hand comes up, burying her fingers in his hair as he nuzzles her temple.

"Say whatever you want," he then whispers in her ear. "I think we look dashing."

She can't do anything but smile tenderly at his words, as he brings one of his hands up to rest it possessively on the firm curve of her stomach. His own smile falters a little then: "I know you're worried, and I know it's hard, but everything's going to be fine."

She closes her eyes, briefly pressing her face against his neck, tightening her grip on his hair as she breathes in deeply.

Within her, the regular spasms are still going on strong, and Peter can feel them too, now. "Hiccups?" He asks, then, and she can tell the smile is back on his lips, even before her face leaves its hiding place and she reopens her eyes, meeting his gaze through the mirror, nodding softly.

He presses a kiss upon her head, holding on to her even tighter, swaying them slowly on the spot, to the distant sound of the music coming from outside the room.

"Someone's obviously already dancing in there, but you think he can share you for a minute or two?" he asks softly in her ear, promptly adding:"I know you're tired, and I'm sure Astrid and Vincent will understand if we leave early, but I would really love to have a dance with my beautiful wife."

She lets go of his hair, her hand coming down to cover his over her pulsing stomach. She intertwines their fingers, loving the feel of her wedding ring scratching against his, or how the metal presses into her flesh. And as if on cue, all movements suddenly stop beneath their joined hands.

But she knows he's okay, her head already starting to fill with colors; their baby boy is sleeping peacefully again.

Olivia smiles tenderly at her husband, then, and she has no other choice but to admit he's right.

They do look quite dashing.

"You know what?" She eventually says softly, almost serenely. "I think he just gave us his permission."

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I told you it would be bad for your teeth xD Oh well.

The birth is next! I'll try and get it done as fast as I can but I know it's going to be at least 3 or 4 times the size of this part (not to mention school things that need to be done) so I can't promise anything. You know reviews make me happy :D

PS: For the curious, I put a link at the end of my profile page to the picture of Olivia's dress in this part ;)


	6. VI THE BIRTH 1

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing :)

So I started writing the birth chapter, wrote most of it actually, and yet I seemed unable to reach the end of it (it turned out to be a monster, as I expected). And since it's getting late since I've updated and I really wanted to post something on this Christmas week, well, here we go, the first installment of one big chapter divided in two parts. Don't hate me :D

You know I love drama, and by now, you might know that I really (REALLY) love anything that has to do with birth. So this (and the second half) contains both :p Enjoy, I hope!

* * *

><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>VI. THE BIRTH (1)<strong>

* * *

><p><em>(November 2018)<em>

As the events of the day progressively unravel from bad to worse, Olivia cannot help but think about Murphy's Law, and how the Bishop Boys had first mentioned it around her.

It had been years ago, undoubtedly no more than a few weeks after they had gotten Walter out of St Claire. She was on a lead, driving full speed on the highway with the two men in her car, when the engine decided to simply die on her. Of course, Peter, who always claimed to be able to fix anything mechanical, was unsuccessful in this case. She didn't have any more success, and it wasn't from lack of trying and cursing.

Obviously, it was pouring rain as well, and she and Peter spent at least forty minutes bent over her open hood, until he basically dragged her back inside the car, both of them drenched to the bone. That was when Charlie called to confirm her lead had taken off, and she decided to blame it all on Peter's inability to work his magic.

"_Hey, if you want to blame it on something, blame Murphy's Law,_" he answered grimly, energetically brushing the water out of his hair, causing it to spike –Olivia remembers that quite vividly, as she also recalls getting even madder at herself for finding him a little too attractive at that instant.

"_Oh, Murphy's Law, of course!_" Walter then exclaimed from the backseat. "_That would explain why I think I just stained my underpants, when I thought it would simply be gas."_

Peter's wet hair and stubble promptly escaped Olivia's mind after that, offering the old man a murderous glare that caused him to hastily add:

"_Oh don't worry, dear, it was just a squirt again. Too much chili last night, I'm afraid. Are you gassy, son?"_

Generally speaking, Olivia has never been one to believe in that kind of thing, highly skeptical about the thought that everything will start to go wrong, simply because a 'Law' says they will. Things have a tendency to do that on their own, law or not. And as always, it is all just a matter of perception anyway, people deciding to put the blame on everything but themselves, in most cases.

However doubtful she might usually be, she cannot ignore how Murphy's Law seems to be indeed in action today, when it comes to the birth of their son.

It starts with the hurricane.

That hurricane named Annie, which, according to the weather channel, was never supposed to come so high up on the East Coast. But after all, the weather channel has never exactly been trust worthy, even less since the world has started disintegrating. Hurricanes are no laughing matter, but they are not that worrisome either; it isn't the first time Peter and she have ended up stuck in the house for several days because of a bad storm.

On the other hand, it is the first time it happens when she's thirty-eight weeks pregnant.

Truth be told, she's been feeling nervous about this whole situation ever since she was informed two days ago by the weather man on TV that Annie would actually come up their way after all, and that people needed to prepare. No matter how '_eventless'_ and '_exemplary'_ her pregnancy has been so far, she is pretty sure any pregnant woman in her situation, so close to being due, would _not_ enjoy learning that a hurricane was coming their way. She was already having enough trouble as it was keeping her emotions under control without this kind of additional stress.

As usual, she doesn't need to verbalize these worries for Peter to become aware of them, and being the perfect, caring, resourceful husband that he is, he has taken care of everything. Not that she could have done much, anyway, huge as she is. He has bought mountains of water and food long before the hurricane decided to come farther north, '_just in case'_, and has then done all that he could to protect their house from floods during the worst of it.

Despite his best efforts, the garage does end up flooded during the nastiest hours of the storm, somewhere in the middle of the night between the 11th and 12th of November.

It is still raining hard outside, the sky so grey and the winds so strong that it hardly feels like daytime at all, when Olivia's pain begins. It's not even 10 o'clock, and Peter is busy trying to fix…whatever can be fixed in their garage to limit the damage.

She's slumped on the couch, eyes fixed on the lights overhead as they flicker again, wondering gloomily how long it's going to take for electricity to give up on them, when the low ache she's been feeling in her back pretty much constantly these past few days, abruptly escalates.

It is sudden and intense enough to cause her breathing to halt for a few seconds, as her entire body tenses and all of her muscles contract, and all she can do is wait for the pain to subside. When it does, she can barely catch her breath, the book she was pretending to read having crashed on the floor when she impulsively spread both of her hands over her extended stomach. What she does next was to be expected.

She goes into denial.

Surely this is nothing, simply one of these fake contractions she's been having for a few weeks now, her body preparing itself for the _real_ labor. She ignores the fact that Braxton Hicks contractions don't normally hurt that way, usually causing more discomfort than actual pain, or that she very well knows what this felt like.

She ignores the obvious, still somewhat paralyzed on the couch, as she tries to remain calm and composed. Above the thumping sound of her heart, pounding beneath her ribs and against her ears, all she hears is the violent wind howling all around the house, and the rain still falling so strongly and steadily she barely even notices it anymore, the sound having blended into the background.

But it is definitely there.

She knows the roads are flooded outside. Which is one of the many reasons why this _cannot_ be anything beside a random, pregnancy related back pain.

It has to be caused by the way she's sitting, she decides, then. She's been in that same position for too long, and her body is simply protesting. She knows standing up will put pressure on her bladder instead of on her back, which in turn will make her want to pee every three minutes, but she has to move.

After only two failed attempts, she's back on her feet, and as she expected, her need to pee is instantaneous. She ignores the discomfort, though, starting to pace as slowly as possible, focusing her mind on _him_. He's okay, she knows, though she can tell he's been affected by her pain and adrenaline rush, as he is now kicking vigorously.

She ignores that, too, wobbling around the living room and concentrating on her intakes of breath, inhaling deeply, and exhaling slowly. She cannot help but keep an eye on the digital clock under the TV, though; denial or not, she's still counting the minutes, praying for the pain _not_ to come back, and every time a new number appears, replacing the other, she allows herself to relax a little more. After nearly ten minutes of nothing beside an increasing need to use the bathroom, she decides it indisputably was a random pain, which means she can go relieve her bladder.

She's in the hallway, mere feet away from the bathroom's door, when the pain comes back. Somehow, it seems even worse this time; she feels like the muscles of her lower back and abdomen are being torn apart, while scorching blades are piercing her skin and flesh. Even though some part of her was expecting it, knew it would come back, the intensity of it still takes her by surprise, and the only way she manages to stay on her feet is by using the wall for support, pressing both of her hands hard against it as the pain literally causes her to bend in half. She's not even aware of the half-moon marks her nails are carving into the light paint; she curses over and over again under her breath, until that one word morphs into a pained moan.

When the pain stops, it is hardly a relief. The physical respite is real and more than welcomed, but she's now so distressed that she can't even move.

Her baby, on the other hand, is moving again, madly kicking her insides, which lets her know she's not the only one disapproving of this. Still too shaky to move, all she manages is to bring one of her hands down to her stomach, as she rests her head upon her other arm. She wants to send him reassuring thoughts, but she's unable to collect herself, her mind completely rejecting the reality of what seems to be happening for good.

She hears Peter's voice before he's close enough to catch sight of her.

"Okay, I think I fixed the leak. Doesn't look like the rain is gonna stop anytime soon, though, the street's really starting to look like a riv-," his brief pause lets her know he's noticed she's not on the couch anymore. "Olivia?"

She forces herself to straighten up on shaky legs, and turns her head just in time to see him appear at the end of the hallway, his clothes dripping water on the floor. He looks like he was halfway through taking his drenched sweater off when his eyes have stopped on her, and now she sees the immediate changes on his face as he takes her in.

She doesn't know what he's seeing, but whatever emotions she's displaying, it causes his brow to crease in serious worry.

"What's wrong," he instantly asks. Though his voice is already lower, he's doing a good job at sounding calm.

She shakes her head, both of her hands now cupping her bump in an instinctive and shielding gesture, the baby still trying to move around in his tight space. "Nothing," she lies, but her voice is hoarse, and slightly quivering. "Just…some mild pain, it's nothing."

But he's already joined her, his eyes roaming over her as if there was a physical evidence of whatever happened and he simply needed to find it. "You're white as a sheet," he tells her, gently grabbing her arm. "Maybe you should lie down."

But she shakes her head again, though she doesn't shake off his grip. She's actually leaning into his touch, welcoming the warmth always irradiating from his body, even wet as he is right now. "I really need to pee," she tells him instead, and her voice sounds ghostly even to her own ears.

"Was it a contraction?" He asks her, then, his eyes darker already; he's trying not to look alarmed, but his eyes could never lie. He knows her too well, knows that something serious has happened, despite her denial.

She cannot lie to him either, and yet, she tries again, averting her gaze as she does so. "No," she answers, and she finally attempts to free her arm from his grip. "Peter, I just need to use the bathroom, I'm fine."

He lets her go swiftly, even though she can tell with a glance that he does it reluctantly, not convinced at all by her answers, and she keeps repeating herself that _everything's fine everything's fine everything's fine_.

She can't be in labor, not now. Even though her baby has been officially 'full term' for a week now, she still has two weeks to go before her due date, her doctor is out of town, and there is a freaking _hurricane _going on out there.

She's fine, truly, and she will feel even better when she can relieve the pressure on her bladder.

She starts to move so she can go do just that, when Peter grabs her arm again, and his grip is stronger this time, his fingers digging into her flesh, almost too strongly. She turns around to protest, but the words die on her lips, as she realizes he's not looking at her face anymore, but down at her feet.

She instinctively follows his gaze, just when her foggy brain finally decides to notify her of the fact that there is a warm liquid going down her legs. It's going down her legs, and soon, it starts to drip on the floor, matching Peter's leaking pants. Except that _her_ pants were still dry a minute ago.

For a few mortified second, she thinks her bladder has decided to ignore her and has emptied itself without her consent, but she quickly realizes the uncomfortable sensation is still definitely there.

This, this is something else. And Peter decides to be the one to point out what has now become very obvious.

"I think your water just broke."

…

Not surprisingly, anger comes after denial.

It doesn't happen right away, though. It takes Olivia a while to accept the fact that her labor has indeed begun, and that the time has come for her to hate the entire universe. Again.

Before she reaches that phase, she's had time to finally empty her bladder in the right place, have a new contraction, change into clothes that aren't drenched –so does Peter, incidentally, though she's currently being understandably too self-centered to care about his wet clothes-, have _another_ contraction, before she's forced to listen to her husband argue on the phone with a 911 employee.

Like she dreaded, taking the car is not even an option, which means help has to be sent their way, somehow. But from what she's hearing on her side of the conversation, they are obviously swamped at the moment, and a woman in labor is '_not a priority, as long as she is not in any obvious medical distress'. _

She's back on the couch and in the middle of another contraction when she hears Peter repeat the words to his interlocutor; he's not even repeating them for her, but more out of honest and livid disbelief. She can tell he's trying hard to stay calm and collected for her sake, but she knows that watching her being plagued with so much pain, when all she can do is try to get through it by breathing loudly and rhythmically like she was taught years ago, is not helping.

He's pacing, something he only does when he's extremely disgruntled, one of his hands up to the back of his head, endlessly and frustratingly ruffling his hair as he walks and argues. As she lets the pain take over her, she focuses on the movements of this nervous hand, and it isn't until she's pain-free again that the meaning of what he's been saying fully settles in, and her mood change drastically.

That's when anger strikes.

She cannot believe this, cannot accept it. So her situation isn't bad enough for someone to come for her right away, uh? It wasn't supposed to happen like this, and when she could be blaming everybody and everything –maybe even Murphy's Law, her anger settles on one specific person.

When he has hung up from this useless conversation, she asks –orders- him for the phone, and he promptly hands it over to her, having obviously noticed her change of mood with only these few words and the look on her face.

She presses the number 4, having added her doctor's number to their speed dial months ago, now, and she's not surprised when her call goes into voicemail.

"Hello, _Stephan_," she greets him after the beep with spite in her voice. She insists on his first name, as she had never done so before, no matter how many times he told her she could. "Olivia Dunham speaking. Remember how you joked last week about how I better _not_ go into labor while you were out of town? Guess what? There's a fucking hurricane going on outside, and I'm stuck in my house. I have a baby trying to get out of me, and apparently, that doesn't qualify as an emergency, so nobody's coming for us. Just so you know, I blame you for jinxing the birth of my child. Have fun at your conference!"

She hangs up and throws the phone on the coffee table, or rather _across _it; her gesture is so vigorous that it goes flying, soon crashing onto the ground, and scattering into pieces all over the floor.

She raises her flaming eyes to meet Peter's, who's looking both worried and grave, surely judging that now is not a good time to make any comment on her current actions. She tries to push herself up, suddenly feeling more uncomfortable than ever sitting there on the couch, but her arms feel weak already, and that simple move seems to be a complete waste of energy she cannot offer to spare.

"Help me up," she asks him, or rather orders him again; he doesn't object, swiftly joining her to help her get back her on her feet.

As soon as she feels steady enough, she lets go of him to start pacing again, her irritation only worsening when she looks outside the windows and sees nothing but splashing rain against the glass, the wind still whistling all around the house.

"Is it going to get worse?" she asks him tersely.

"No, the worst has passed us during the night," he answers carefully.

"So why can't those paramedics bring their ass up here?" She almost growls, both her hands back on her stomach as she goes round and round the room, one eye on the clock, all too aware her respite is nothing but temporary; even now, her baby is too agitated for her to feel any kind of relief at all.

"They will come as soon as they can," he tells her even more cautiously, watching her fume. "But as they said, it might take a few hours for them to-"

"I don't _have_ a few hours, Peter," she almost spits out, stopping abruptly. "I'm not one of these women whose labor lasts two days. From experience, I can say mine goes by rather quickly."

"I know," is all he can answer, almost miserably, and she can tell by the look on his face that he's remembering her first labor surely more clearly than she does at that instant, still refusing to focus on those memories.

Unable to stand that particular sadness in his eyes, she looks away, starting to walk again, turning all of her grief into more throbbing anger, even though she's trying to keep her breathing steady, resulting in loud, furious gulps of air.

"The contractions are already too close," she insists. "What do they expect me to do, give birth here, in the middle of our living room?" She half-hoped he would laugh that off, tell her she would be out of here long before this became a possibility, but his lack of answer forces her gaze back to him, and the new apologetic look displayed on his face makes it clear he has been told just that on the phone. "You gotta be _kidding_ me." She hisses.

"Let's not think of the worst, okay?" He still tries to sound calm, raising his hands, but she's so beyond trying to do the same, her need to physically let her anger out stronger than ever. "There is still a chance they will be there on time to-"

"Don't tell me I can't think of the worst," she cuts him off again, and inside her womb, her baby is kicking vehemently too, and she feels even madder for being so weak that she's affecting him that way during such a stressful time. "How can you expect me to do anything but think of the worst?"

"Olivia…" he tries, his hands still half-raised, knowing exactly what she's implying, and she's not only referring to the fact that there's a damn _hurricane_ going on out there.

"No, this is ridiculous, Peter, fucking ridiculous!" she almost shouts. "Why can't I just have a normal birth? I don't think it's too much to ask after what happened to Elizabeth!" She's getting demented again, her hands moving as furiously as her blood does, racing through her veins. "What did I ever do to always end up having to-"

But her crazed rant and angry pacing are abruptly interrupted by the return of the pain, having neglected to prepare for it, too busy going insane, and it seizes her insides, seizes them, twists them, tears them apart, with a blinding and frightful intensity, once again stopping her breathing and shutting the rest of the world down.

All she knows is that Peter is suddenly close enough for her to cling to him with all the force of her suffering as she moans through the pain, her anger and agony morphing into sheer fury, and she thinks she might be hearing some sort of collapsing sound around her, but there's no way she can focus on anything until the pain stops.

When it eventually does and she's left panting against Peter's shirt, she becomes aware of his hand in her hair, the other one tracing circles over her back, trying to soothe her. When she finally gathers up enough strength to unbury her face from his chest and look up, she instantly notices the new chaos surrounding them.

It looks like, somehow, the wild winds have found their way inside the room and turned over pretty much everything that could be turned over, with the exception of the biggest items like the couch or the table. Books, chairs and any kind of bibelots are now scattered all over the floor.

"What happened?" she asks, still out of breath, as worried as she is confused.

"Uhm…I think _you_ happened," Peter answers cautiously, and she turns her gaze back to him. "Am I glowing?"

For some reason, his question simply manages to bring back her fury, realizing all too well what she has just done with the sheer force of her mind. She lets go of his shirt and gives him a killer glare. "What do you think, Peter?"

Of course he's fucking glimmering; he's been glimmering all along, but she has become really good at ignoring the phenomena in these kind of situations, forcing her mind to accept that it is simply a part of him, a merely annoying detail. Because whenever she focuses on it, she can't help but also focus back on the fact that she's _terrified_, and she cannot afford to be terrified right now. Being angry is easier, almost safer –as long as she doesn't send furniture flying their way.

But it's already too late, because the truth is, she's beyond terrified.

She already feels her terror growing stronger, spreading fast within her entire being, clenching her throat and burning her eyes, and his frightfully beautiful and wavering aura gets even brighter. Soon, she's twisting the fabric of his shirt in her fists again, and his own grip on her hair tightens in response, his eyes already softer and sadder.

"Peter," she repeats his name, and her tone cannot be more different from the way she had said his name a minute ago. From tensed and fuming, it has changed to pleading. "You have to drive me to a hospital."

"Honey, I can't…" he says softly, and she can tell it causes him to feel his very own kind of agony, to deny her when she's looking at him that way. His hand on her back is still moving slowly, a useless attempt to try and reassure her, and she knows he can feel her trembling under his palm and against his chest.

"Yes, you can," she insists, nodding almost imperceptibly. "We…we'll go slow, we'll be careful. And I _swear_ I won't ever ask anything of you again" But lost into his eyes the way she is right now, she knows she won't bend his mind. "Please," she begs, despair ringing in that single word she always hopes she will never have to use again. "Peter, please, I can't stay here."

But he's shaking his head, swallowing convulsively; it's clearly taking all he's got to simply look at her, knowing that in some way, he's responsible for her distress. "The roads are flooded, Olivia, we can't take the car," he tells her softly, yet firmly. "I could never take that kind of risk, even if you weren't pregnant and in labor. At this point, I'm sorry to say this, but you and the baby are safer here than you would be if I took you into the storm, even if it means that...you may have to deliver him here."

Hearing him say those words feels like a slap.

She has said them herself only minutes ago, but somehow, without her anger fogging her mind and with despair now clenching her heart, their meaning finally sinks in.

There is a very high probability she's going to have to give birth _here_, in their house. No doctors, no nurses, no monitoring for her baby, no one ready to do the impossible to save him, if something wrong were to happen.

She's on her own.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN:** A big chunk of the rest is already written, so I promise I'll do my best not to make you guys wait too long XD I don't think I'll be able to post anything else before Sunday, though, so Merry Christmas to you all, dear readers! And you know there's no better present to a fanfic writer than reviews :')


	7. VII THE BIRTH 2

**A/N:** Hi everyone! So as promised, I did as fast as I could, and considering that it was the Holidays and that this ended up being twice the size of the previous part (almost 9k hahahahaaa), I think I did pretty good! :D I had a real blast writing it, so it helps.

Thank you so much for sticking with me guys! I hope this will be a nice pay off for all the bad things I wrote in the past (part 18 of In Reverse, I'm looking at you). I know it felt very therapeutic to me haha.

I'll just shut up now and let you read :)

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

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><p><strong>VII. THE BIRTH (2)<strong>

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><p>After some pitiful bargaining comes the ruthless and inevitable depression stage.<p>

Olivia is not exactly sure how she has ended up in the bathroom again, very much on her own indeed –if not for the restless child still trying to move around within her. All she knows is that she has somehow managed to walk away from Peter and hide herself behind the door just in time, as less than a minute has passed before her newfound misery gets the last of her strengths, and she nothing short of breaks down.

That is why she is now sitting on the toilet's closed lid, with her face buried in her hands, a hopeless attempt to muffle the sound of her desolation; she knows Peter is standing in the hallway, behind the door. He's no fool, he knows exactly why she has retreated so hastily, unable to crumble in front of him. Her pride often still gets the best of her, no matter how many times he has seen her cry, or how many times she has welcomed the gentle touch of his fingers on her face, allowing him to brush her tears away.

She cannot let him comfort her right now, not yet, not when the enormity of it all has finally crashed down on her. It's not simply the fact that she may have to deliver her baby here without any medical assistance –though this alone would be more than enough to cause anyone in her situation to break.

The reality is, she is simply not ready to deliver her baby at all.

She has been so focused on going through each phase of this pregnancy, taking it one day at a time, hoping for the best all the while expecting the worst, that she has barely thought about the day when she would actually have to _give birth_ again.

She has dismissed Peter's offer to sign her up for some Lamaze classes, telling him rather bluntly she remembered how the process went and what to do. But does she, now? When she rejected his suggestion, the memories of that night were still mostly blocked out, and she had no desire to try and make them reappear by doing anything that could unleash that kind of darkness.

But now…now, there is no escaping it. It has invaded every corner of her mind and every inch of her skin. The fear and the pain have unraveled what she had managed to keep locked up for so many years, her current situation forcing her to remember what had happened, and how.

She remembers now, how merciless the pain was, a mere physical embodiment of the despair she felt upon losing her child, each wave increasing her dread, as she knew the _real_ end was coming closer and closer. She remembers it all, and feels it all over again.

She is not prepared to give birth to her son, because to her, birth is not the beginning of an incredible journey. To her, birth is where hopes vanish, dreams shatter, and babies die. It doesn't matter that her daughter was already gone by the time she was forced to push her out; by doing so, she had let her go.

She had let her go, and now, she is terrified she's going to have to her son go, too.

As if acting as an ominous omen, she feels the now familiar and excruciating stirs of an upcoming wave of pain creep from deep within her, another contraction she has once again failed to prepare for. Her lack of attention makes it that much worse when the big of it washes over her, especially distraught as she already is.

Her hands leave her face, one of her arms automatically coming down to brace herself as she clings to the edge of toilet with her other hand, swaying through the pain. She bites down hard on her lip, trying to keep in what she knows would surely be more than a moan, a wounded cry, maybe; her perception of reality has once again completely shrunk, rendering her unaware of anything but the pain and her desperate desire to make it _stop_.

She hardly feels any better when it withdraws. She knows the tide is only backing down to come back stronger in a few minutes. The throbbing ache in her lower back is still agonizing, and she has the hardest time breathing properly, her crying having already resumed as if never interrupted.

Her woe even worsens when she feels her baby's own distress, and she hates herself for being so overwhelmed that she cannot comfort him in any way, cannot do anything but yield to her own misery, letting it seep from her mind to his.

_I'm sorry, baby, _she keeps on thinking, still rocking and hugging herself_. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…_

She's sorry for being weak, for putting him through this, for putting them both in such an austere situation.

Lamenting over it is obviously not making her feel any better, though, psychologically or physically, and her need to leave her sitting position is becoming almost visceral; she's pretty sure the pain she feels is caused by his head pressing down on her pelvis bones, surely crushing some of her nerves in the process.

She feebly unwraps her arms from around her stomach and attempt to push herself up; she promptly stops. She feels so drained that this simple move causes her to get light headed, something she should definitely avoid. She has rarely felt so weakened, and every inch of her being is appalled by how easily she's been defeated.

Still trying to adjust her sitting position in the hope that it will lessen her discomfort, she takes a wobbly gulp of air and does what has to be done. "Peter!" She hardly cares about how upset she sounds, her pride having finally been overcome by how much she needs him at that instant.

Knowing that he had been waiting for her call -or any kind of authorization to come in, she's not surprised in the least when the door opens almost instantly. She reopens her eyes to look up at him, and watches as his face goes from a concerned expression to something beyond that. She knows how miserable she must look, with her tearstained face and bloodshot, puffy eyes, but again, she doesn't care anymore.

He seems to deflate at the sight of her in this state, and her name escapes his lips in a saddened whisper, as always saying so much more within that one simple word.

"I can't get back up…" she manages to breathe out, weakly wiping her nose off with a trembling hand, and even though her voice is as quiet as his had been, she hears the defeat in her own words, feels the warm path new tears are already tracing down her damp cheeks.

He walks to her without another word, too upset to be able to speak. He's always gentle with her when he helps her move, but his touch seems even softer this time; the moment she feels his hands on her and his strong, unwavering body within her reach, she holds on to him; she's not exactly helping him in the process of getting her back on her feet, but she yearns for him in a very primeval way at that instant.

Once she is up again, the relief is instantaneous; it is not only caused by the decreasing pressures and aches. It's him, his scent and body warmth, his hands already back on her face, the soft kisses he is soon pressing upon her wet skin, and the reassuring words he murmurs in her ear.

Incredibly, it makes her feel both better and worse, comforted by his mere presence and soothing gestures, and yet ashamed of her own behavior. It takes all of her remaining strength not to completely give in and break down all over again against him. All she wants to do is hide her face in the crook of his neck and pretend this is all a nightmare.

She doesn't, trying to get a hold of herself instead, something that turns out to be incredibly hard. Tears keep on rolling out of her eyes without her consent, sliding along his fingers on her cheeks, and when she allows herself to drown into the stormy sea of his eyes, she sees his own plea, silently begging her to let him in, to let him help her in any way he can.

And right now, there really is nothing he can do but listen to her, as she finally dares admit what causes her to be so heartbroken.

"I just wanted him to have a normal birth…" she manages to whisper between two loud and spasmodic intakes of breath, her grip on his shirt tightening instinctively.

"I know…" he says softly, his fingers now gently moving on her face, pushing wet strands of hair from her skin.

"I wanted to give him the best chances," she continues, her voice slightly louder, making the despair in her tone that much stronger. "He deserves the best care, Peter, and now, we have no way of knowing if he's okay. We have nothing to help him, if something goes wrong." And she feels her face crumbling all over again as she confesses her biggest fear: "I can't do this on my own. I can't fail him, too."

She sees his pupils widening, darkening the color of his eyes, as his fingers stop moving to cup her face again.

"Livia…" he says gently, but his voice is as firm as the grip of his hands on her cheeks, and she has no other choice but to hear every single word he says next, to hear them and integrate them. "You never failed Elizabeth. And you won't fail him either. You will do everything in your power to protect him, because that is what you always do. I won't lie, this is definitely not the best birth scenario, and it's true that we don't have any medical instrument to check on him. But _you_ can check on him, in ways doctors can't even comprehend. And I know he's okay, because if he wasn't, you would have felt it and let me know."

Making her focus back on the fact that she knows their baby is still as lively as he ever was, not only because she can feel him move but because he's constantly inside her mind, is the best thing Peter could do. Her panic hasn't gone anywhere, but at least, she's comforted by the feeling of her child.

She still shakes her head in his hand, snuffling pitifully. "He's not liking this at all," she feels the need to let him know, and he actually manages to smile sadly at her observation.

"None of us is liking this, honey," he says then, truthfully. Despite his obvious dislike for their current situation, he still manages to keep his eyes soft and reassuring, speaking in a low, confident tone. "But we'll get through this. I promise you he will be fine, and even if I know you don't really care about that, so will you. You are _not_ on your own, Olivia. I'm right here, with you two, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this together."

She closes her eyes, feeling a wave of incredible gratitude and trust wash over her, not even having the strength to feel the guilt she usually feels whenever she momentarily forget she isn't alone at all, something she often tends to do during a crisis. Right now, he is her and her baby's lifeline, and she's decided on clinging to him with all her might. She feels his lips on her forehead and allows herself to sink into his touch.

"What are we going to do…" She eventually whispers, and even though she has finally stopped crying, she still feels so lost and utterly unprepared. And scared.

He moves his hands, then, sliding his fingers from her cheeks to her hair, and his fingertips slowly start moving upon her skull, pressing into the skin in such ways that she can feel the muscles of her neck losing some tension already.

"First thing first, we are going to change the mood of this labor and help you relax," he says softly.

Even though the way he's massaging her skull feels heavenly and she already wants to ask him to move his magic hands to her lower back and try to do something about those aches, she's not convinced so easily. She reopens her eyes and moves her head slightly away from his to look at him.

"How exactly do you expect me to relax right now?" She asks him, more confused than aggravated.

His gaze is unwavering, warm and tender. "Let's look at this in a more positive light," he says then, and before she can laugh at that, he continues: "I'm serious. Even if the paramedics reach us soon enough, I highly doubt they will take you to a hospital, not with what's going outside, so it's safe to assume they would simply assist you through the birth, here. So I'll get everything set up for you to deliver him here. If they arrive in time, then great, they'll take over. If they don't, we will still be prepared, and we'll do this together. How does that sound?"

The most stubborn and reluctant part of her wants to answer with another break down -anger or tears, it doesn't really matter at this point, feeling the selfish urge to throw a tantrum to indicate just how much she _does not want_ to give birth in her house. This kind of thinking is hardly productive or helpful, though, that is why she lets out a defeated sigh and nods shortly. "That sounds reasonable, considering our options."

Never taking his eyes away from hers, one of his hands leaves her hair, then, coming down to rest on the firm bump between them, and his gaze gets even more intense. "And Olivia…I know this is not what you wanted, and not the safest way to do it, but it doesn't change the fact that…he's coming. This, this is him trying to be born. And I know you don't want him to feel like all we feel is fear. We can still make sure he knows how much we can't wait to meet him."

Something shifts within her, then, and she almost hears the click in her brain when the meaning of his words sinks into her, when she finally realizes that because the circumstances are not the best, it doesn't necessarily mean the result will be catastrophic. She doesn't have to lose him, too.

Because whatever happens from this moment on, she will be holding her child in her arms within the next few hours.

And if she listens to her deepest instincts, she knows that this time, she'll get to hear her baby's voice when he'll take his first breath. She'll get to feel him move on the other side of her skin. She'll get to see him open his eyes, and take in the whole world.

Once again, she's overwhelmed with emotions, but for the first time today, it is the good kind of tears that invade her eyes, a kind of serene and baffled comprehension that leads her to let go of his shirt to bring both her hands down to cover his upon her stomach, and she squeezes his fingers as she inhales shakily, their gazes firmly locked.

"He's coming…" she repeats, and her voice rings with her newfound bewilderment, and a beautiful small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

She feels instantaneous relief when she becomes aware of her baby's tranquility; he has calmed down, too, soothed by her rush of unexpected optimistic thoughts; from now on, she decides, she will do everything she can to make this about _him_, rather than about her and her fears.

"What can I do?" She immediately asks Peter, sounding more like the FBI agent than the laboring mother, which causes his smile to broaden a little more, and she realizes that even if he's doing a great job at looking composed, he's as affected by her general mood as their son.

"What you can do now is let me pamper you. I'll start by drawing you a bath."

But he has barely let go of her to bend over the bathtub that she gets a tight hold on his arm, and she's pretty sure he knows by the way she's digging her fingers in his muscles that another contraction has sneaked up on her, even before he turns his gaze back to her and sees her face. Soon, she's clinging to his neck, swaying and swaying and swaying, and then, somehow managing to listen to his words as he tells her that it's _okay_ to vocalize her pain and that it will actually help, she's humming rather loudly, her forehead pressed upon his chest.

And shockingly, she's starting to think this baby cannot come out of her fast enough.

…

Olivia stays in that bathtub for a ridiculously long time.

At first, she was of course slightly dubious when Peter said being in the warm water will make her feel better, and will lessen the pain of the next contractions, all the while facilitating the progression of her labor. But as soon as she was completely immersed in liquid, utterly appreciative of their huge tub she usually rarely uses, she felt like half the strain she felt simply dissolved away, promptly deciding she would spend the rest of the day in there.

It doesn't take long for her to realize her body is instinctively responding the way it generally does whenever she finds herself floating in a fast amount of water –like tanks. Her muscles loosen, her entire being relaxing as her mind opens up. She briefly wonders if Peter counted on that, too, but she's too grateful for the fact that she's finally getting some real rest to ask him.

She learns a few minutes later that the downside of entering such a meditative state so easily is how incredibly intense her contractions unexpectedly gets. And it's not so much on a pain level, as the water does actually make it slightly less acute; she's disorientated by how _aware_ she has suddenly become. She doesn't know what kind of force is invading her flesh with each new swelling pain, but it's powerful. Peter, who coaches her through it all, insists on how this is actually _good_, that she has to let it take over and '_surrender to the sensation'_. She lets him know this is easier to say when you don't have a uterus currently trying to squeeze a human being out of you.

Nonetheless, she decides to stay in the tub, because said squeezed human being seems to approve of it greatly. He's still disliking the contractions with vehemence, but she welcomes his strong, disapproving kicks, each of them a reassuring proof that he's okay.

Between the waves of pain, Peter does pamper her, bringing her juice to drink, putting cold cloths on her forehead when she experiences hot flushes, adjusting the water's temperature, telling her stories he has read in his books, always trying to reassure her. Sometimes, he leaves her for several minutes, and she can hear him moving around their bedroom, but she doesn't really mind either, as she's often floating away during those moments. And he's always back before each contraction, always there to hold her hand and breathe with her, encouraging her and giving her advice.

At some point, he tells her that during contractions, she should try and visualize what's happening instead of focusing on the pain, and she almost wants to hate him a little for that, because almost instantly after that unnecessary piece of advice, another one starts, and she's suddenly picturing herself sitting in the front seat of a roller coaster going up an incredibly long and steep slope.

And it goes higher and higher extremely fast, filling her with dread and the strangest kind elation, because she knows the fall is going to be that much more terrifying and exhilarating; but every time she reaches the top of the slope, the peak of her contractions, just when she's convinced the endless descent is about to start, the pain abruptly stops, and she's back in the tub, relieved and frustrated.

She has _never_ liked roller coasters, and she quickly decides this one is the worst of them all.

Eventually, her physical discomfort forces her out of the water. She can tell the baby has made some serious progress, and the intensity of each contraction is becoming too extreme, her grip with reality slipping away from her; she has to move. Peter helps her out of the tub and into her robe, and when she enters the bedroom, she understands at last what he has been doing in there.

He has transformed it into a birthing room. A rudimentary one, of course, but she's not going to complain. The entire floor is now covered with sheets, and every towel they possess is folded neatly somewhere on the ground, along with pillows, as if he wanted to make sure one would always be at arm's reach. She's puzzled by the excessive number of candles he has lit all around the room, though.

"Are you trying to make this romantic?" she asks him warily. "Because I'm telling you right now, I've never felt less aroused in my life."

He chuckles lightly at that. "I promise seducing you is the last thing on my mind. I'm being pro-active. It's in case we lose power." Just to prove him right, the bedroom's light flickers then, the way every light in the house has been doing for the past few hours. Satisfied by this answer, even though she doesn't like the thought of the power giving up on them, she turns her gaze back to the newly 'carpeted' floor.

"Why the floor, though?" she asks next. "What happened to women giving birth on a bed?"

He has an answer ready for everything. "Apparently, when it comes to unplanned homebirths, it is advised to try and deliver the baby on harder surfaces than beds. It's more rustic, but it will make it easier for you."

"Lovely," she sighs, hardly thrilled about this, even though she has finally accepted the fact that she's going to have to give birth here. She's doing her best to go with the flow, to make it as calm and safe as possible for the baby. Her extended bath has helped her greatly; she still feels strangely mellow, when she's not feeling unexpectedly grouchy. Like she is right now.

"Are you still allowed to check me on the bed, or do I have to be on the floor?"

That's another thing she's really not happy about. He has to be the one examining her, and no matter how many years they've spent together, or how many times he has seen that particular area of her anatomy, she doesn't enjoy the idea of her husband seeing it during _birth_. Once again, she doesn't exactly have a choice, and she doesn't want to be difficult and whiny, that's why she agreed that he should check her, so they would know how far along she is exactly.

"You can lie down on the bed," he answers calmly, and again, she's quietly amazed and grateful, reassured by how coolly is behaving through it all.

Her gloom about what he has to do swiftly disappears, as her body is wracked by yet another contraction, and this one manages to feel worse than anything she's survived this far. She realizes then just how much the water was helping, absorbing the surplus of energy maybe, like she was told years ago. On top of this unbearable, vigorous pain carrying her higher and higher on that endless track, it appears to be lasting even longer, now, her body letting her know she has undoubtedly entered a whole new phase.

By the time her muscles relax enough so that she can breathe again, she nothing short of splays herself on the bed like a wounded animal, throwing her robe on the floor as it has started to feel plainly horrendous against her skin, telling Peter he can do whatever he wants to her as long as he helps her get the baby out.

She expects some childish joke from him after such proposition, as it is how he usually acts in stressful situations, but he doesn't make any comment at all, simply joining her on the bed and helping her positioning herself with quiet instructions and gentle hands. Again and again she finds herself grateful for his practical attitude about it all, not showing any sign of hesitation, and not taking it lightly either.

She still covers her face with her arms as he does…what needs to be done, focusing on the other set of movements she feels within her, somewhat dazzled when she understands the baby is actively reacting to the fact that someone is probing his head –among other things.

"Well, I can't tell how effaced your cervix is exactly, but you're definitely close. I wouldn't be surprised if you had entered transition already."

She lets out a long grunt, the sound muffled against her arms. "Speak English to me, Peter."

She's relieved when it takes his hands away from her –something she never expected to think when it comes to him touching her on their bed- and she finally takes her hands away from her face, pushing herself up on her forearms to look at him.

"Transition is the last phase of labor before you can push," he explains. "You're almost fully dilated, the baby's head has descended into the birth canal, and even though it's the shortest phase, I'm sorry to inform you that all of your upcoming contractions are going to be very close together, even more intense than before, and longer than the ones you've experienced so far."

She falls back on the bed with another grunt that sounds more like a moan. Somehow, her wrecked body manages to feel both hot and cold at the same time, and she starts shivering forcefully, her insides twisting. She's not prepared for the sudden wave of nausea that washes through her, and before she can even say a word, she's adding her stomach to the list of her organs that have been squeezed unceremoniously today.

She finds herself throwing up all of the juice she had been drinking for the past few hours, having somehow managed to roll on her side, redecorating the sheet covering the floor on that side of the bed.

As she curses unhappily under her breath and spit very gracefully on the ruined sheet, she feels Peter's hands on her back, massaging her where it always hurts, and she hears him say: "Nausea and vomiting are also common signs of transition."

She wants to retort something heated at this unnecessary addition, but she loses all power of thought when pain seizes her once more; all she can do is moan out his name in a pathetic plea, writhing in agony on the bed as she rides this fucking roller coaster.

The next half-hour is a complete blur.

All she can say is that Peter was right when he warned her that this would be the most intense part of labor, the contractions following each other so quickly she barely gets thirty seconds of rest between each of them. And she pretty much loses all sense of inhibition, all sense of anything at all, her mind only set on trying to find positions that can reduce the pain. She's positive that she has tried them all by now; on her back, on her side, on her hands and knees, on the bed, on the floor, leaning against the mattress, against the door, against the dresser, against Peter. At that point, despite his constant encouragements and helpful, massaging hands, her poor husband has been reduced to being nothing more than a possible pain reliever.

Even when she manages to lessen her discomfort, the feeling of having completely relinquished her will power to her body is so strong she doesn't know how she still manages to breathe during her short breaks, feeling ludicrously delirious. She cannot remember feeling this insane during her first labor, but the circumstances were also completely different. Back then, emotional pain was even stronger than the physical kind, and she had taken each blow as a deserved punishment. She had been surrounded by strangers –with the exception of Peter- in a hospital, with a doctor basically ordering her around throughout delivery.

Right now, she actually finds herself unexpectedly grateful in some way for the fact that she's going through this in the intimacy of her own bedroom, with the person she trusts and loves the most in the world; he has told her a while ago now that she shouldn't hold anything back, even allowing himself to joke about how their neighbors wouldn't be able to hear anything anyway over the sound of the storm, even if she screamed her lungs out. She's not screaming her lungs her out, but she's definitely not quiet either.

The other massive difference this time is that her baby is definitely alive. Despite how it's getting harder and harder for her to differentiate her mind from his, every feeling and sensation melding together, it is such a relief to feel him so strongly, in every possible way. She has no doubt this sincere delight adds to the impressive amount of endorphin she knows is flooding her blood now, that wondrous, natural pain killer that causes the world to feel so bright and unsubstantial, even though the power has actually finally given up on them.

She doesn't care, because Peter's preparations have paid off, and he shimmers so beautifully in the candlelight.

At some point, she finds herself on the floor again, suddenly overcome with the intense urge to bear down. She pretty much commands Peter to check her again to see if she's ready to push, feeling like she's going to have to start doing it soon anyway, cervix or no cervix.

"All I feel is his head, the cervix is gone," he announces, then. "You can start pushing."

"Thank God…" she almost chants, not caring anymore about the fact that she's lying stark-naked on her back in the middle of her bedroom, a flushed, delirious, sweaty mess.

Only a few hours ago, she thought pushing him out would be the most terrifying part of this, that she would surely be too panicked to do it. But at that instant, all she feels is relief and determination; she's known for how efficient she can be when she sets her mind to something, but this has reached a whole new level of resolve. She will get her child out, if it takes every last ounce of energy she's got, and nothing, not even a damn hurricane, is going to stop her. And it is with that firm mindset that she starts to push, hoping this it will be as quick as the rest of her labor.

It turns out to be more difficult than she expected.

At first, the progress she's making are irrefutable, feeling him moving farther every time she bears down. But after Peter eagerly tells her he can definitely see the head and that he's about to crown –meaning his head is about to come out- she purely and simply stalls, unaware that she's unconsciously causing this halt.

The contractions are still going on strong, though, and she keeps on pushing with everything she's got, but after nearly thirty minutes of unsuccessful pushing, all she has managed to achieve is to exhaust herself and lose faith. She has just learned the hard way that there is a very fine line between mad elation and gut wrenching terror. Her lack of progress has allowed her worst fears to come back full force, slowing her down even more. What if she simply cannot get him out by herself? What if forceps are needed? What if his shoulders get stuck, even after his head is born? What if she needs an emergency C-section?

What if he doesn't breathe?

She has become deaf to Peter's supporting words, ignorant of his helping gestures, trapped in this state of negativity. The only thing that finally manages to get her to react is the realization that the movements within her have greatly diminished. Their minds are still tightly entwined, letting her know he's still with her, but he's definitely affected by the return of her anguish.

Her instinctive need to protect him from any harm, especially coming from her, is what allows her to break through her fear at last, understanding that it is now imperative for her to get him out.

"Help me up," she breathlessly asks Peter, now also realizing she's only been pushing on her back because she's been told all her life that it is how women do it, and that is how she delivered her baby the first time; but if she listens to her body instead of letting her mind block it, she knows it isn't the most efficient way to do this, knows it doesn't feel right. Even though Peter doesn't question her decision in the slightest, grabbing her firmly without hesitation, she feels the need to add: "Since Mother Nature decided to be a bitch and give us a hurricane, maybe she can also give us a hand a let gravity help out a bit."

He manages to get them both back on their feet surprisingly fast, and she finds herself clinging to his shirt again, hardly able to stand on her own; she's seeing him up close for the first time in quite a while, she realizes then, having been too lost within herself to really fully acknowledge him anymore, though aware that she would be completely hysterical without him right now.

She takes in his pallor, his strained features and the sweat on his skin. He's still looking impressively composed, but his eyes cannot lie, and she know he feels much more than he lets it show.

And true to himself, as they are so acutely aware of the gravity of the situation, he says: "Hey, I think you almost made a joke there, hun." His voice is too hoarse, proof that he doesn't think this is funny at all, but he's still trying to reduce the tension, for her sake and the baby's.

But Olivia has no energy left for this, for trying to relax, and so she chokes out: "I know, because this is obviously so hilarious, I can't contain myself."

She's trying not to break down again, but it's so hard, and she's too tired and too scared and _what if everything goes wrong?_

Desperate to find a way to soothe her, his hands are soon back on her face, pushing away strands of hair still damp from her bath and recent exertion, brushing off trails of tears and sweat from her rosy skin, his eyes stormier than whatever is going on outside.

"Peter…" she whispers, then, pleadingly, hardly believing she's going to utter these words, but she cannot hold them in anymore. "What if he dies?"

There is no smile on his lips, and he looks so stern and intent suddenly, letting her know he's aware of how serious this is, that he's as scared as she is, though he will never admit it, not now, not when she needs him to be strong.

But as always, his eyes are also soft and loving, filled with abiding confidence in her and everything he knows she can do.

"He is not going to die, Olivia," he tells her firmly, looking her square in the eyes, his hold on her face tightening to give power to his words. "You are going to get through this, and he'll be okay. He'll be okay."

She doesn't know what causes what she experiences, then. Maybe it's her exhaustion, maybe it's her strange state of enlightenment; it's surely a combination of the two. All she knows is that all of a sudden, his Glimmer starts to shine brighter than ever. It shines so brightly she cannot see anything but light, intense, dazzling light, along with his eyes, always so blue. It is such a beautiful shade, a unique color she has also seen on a few cherished occasions within her dreams.

And she sees _her_, then, sees Elizabeth, just like she had seen her in that ethereal vision she had, months ago; how she had looked at her so intently as she spoke, so seriously, so boldly.

_"It's okay, mommy," _her daughter had said, her voice as soft as a breath of wind. _"He'll be okay…"_

He'll be okay.

This image is as fleeting and fugitive as everything else to her in that moment, and soon, it's Peter she's staring at again, his aura just as blinding. But she clings on to him, physically and figuratively, the words ringing in her head over and over again, resonating in her soul, and she chooses to believe it is true.

Her face distorted with the intensity of her hopes and fears, she eventually nods in his hands, letting him know she is going to try again. She will try until she succeeds, because there is no alternative for her, certainly not failure.

Without another word, they move then, positioning themselves so that he's standing behind her, wrapping her tightly and securely in his arms, because once she gets going, he will be the only thing keeping her up. This time, when she gives in to that grand force, there will be no more stopping at the top of the slope.

She is going to plunge, and she will do so knowing he is there to catch her.

She still has a few moments of meager rest left before things get intense again, and she uses them to try and prepare for what is to come, breathing deeply, her head thrown back against his shoulder. Her entire body is shivering against his, but it isn't from cold this time, nor from fear; she's almost vibrating with anticipation. When she reopens her eyes and meets his gaze again, she knows he feels it too, somehow connected to her and to their son in that floating instant, and they speak the same sentence wordlessly, through locked eyes and intertwined fingers.

_This is it_

"Are you ready for this?" She asks him in a whisper, and she knows he understands what she means.

She's not asking him if he's ready to be her anchor when she lets herself sink, because it is what he has been to her ever since they first met. What she's asking of him right now goes way beyond that.

"I've been ready for four years…" he answers softly, and his words have the remarkable power to sting and heal her heart at the same time, offering her another lifelong promise she knows he will never break.

And it is more than she can take. Truthfully, she has reached her limits hours ago, and yet, she just keeps on going and going and going, because what else can she do? But what she feels now is simply too intense, and so she lets her tears run free, allowing herself to briefly nestle her face against his neck as he brings one of his hands up to press his palm upon her cheek. As his lips linger on her temple, she draws as much strength from him and his warmth as she possibly can.

He immediately can tell when it starts, feeling her body react to the imminent, ruthless pain, her head shooting away from his neck to rest against his shoulder again. She barely has the time to exchange with him a look filled with the untold, before she is forced to close her eyes once more, breathing loudly through her mouth as she's being strapped into this elevating car, propelled so fast towards a cloudless sky.

"I've got you," she still manages to hear him say into her ear through the blinding pain and overcoming rush. "Just focus on him."

What else could she do but direct of all her might on him?

This time, when she reaches the height of the slope and faces its interminable descent, there is no stopping her fall. She plunges, head first, speeds down with more energy than she ever knew she possessed, and she concentrates all of this colossal momentum upon her child also descending within herself as she bears down, with more force than any of her previous attempts.

The progress she's now making are unmistakable, and she feels all of it, quickly becoming acutely aware of a new excruciating burning sensation; she's not exactly sure when she has gone from standing to squatting, but that is definitely what she is now doing, increasing both the intensity of her pain and the efficiency of her pushes in the process.

She bears down through it all, bears down through the stinging and burning pain, bears down until she feels she might collapse from exertion and lack of oxygen. And just when she thinks her entire body is about to be torn apart, she's offered an impromptu and instantaneous moment of relief. There is definitely still pain, but it feels ridiculously dim compared to what she has just gone through.

She opens her eyes, and is greeted with a sight that incontestably competes with every single bizarre thing she has seen during all these years working for the Fringe Division. She stares at the back of her baby's head, now fully out in the open between her legs, and she's filled with wonder and astonishment. Elation does not have time to take hold of her, though, as she realizes something is not right, and sheer panic twists her heart, causing it to jump into her throat.

"The chord's around his neck!" She blurts out, her voice hoarse from all the sounds of pain she's been making, rendering her exclamation even more frightening, and panic morphs into horror when she takes in the darkening color of her son's skin.

Peter's hands are in action within seconds; she had been so focused on what she was doing, she had almost forgotten he was still most definitely there behind her, supporting her, which makes it look like his hands simply materialize from each side of her from thin air. He doesn't hesitate and immediately tries and hook his fingers under the cord, but it becomes quickly obvious he can't do it.

Still without a single instant of indecision, he grabs her hands with his own, then, guiding them towards the baby's head. "You're gonna have to do it, your fingers are smaller," he instructs her calmly but firmly. "It's okay, Olivia, this happens very often, you just have to get it over his head."

Her mind has gone completely blank, already trying to shield herself from a whole new kind of pain she knows will soon crush her down when she fails to save her child again. But she does everything Peter tells her to do, acting as if on autopilot now, and she manages to unwrap the chord from around his neck surprisingly fast.

"Okay, you need to push gently, now," Peter keeps on directing her softly. "We're going to get his shoulders out."

She obeys, staring blankly at their hands, hers over her baby's head, Peter's on top of it, as he guides her movements, helping her gently rotate his head to get the first shoulder out. As he does so, he begins to turn towards her thigh, his face finally coming into view. A face that is still very bluish. Peter's fingers move with incredible dexterity and delicacy, wiping his nose and mouth off to try and free his airways of mucus, and she keeps on pushing, soon delivering his second shoulder, and with one last gush of pink liquid, out comes the rest of his body. Peter is the one actively holding him up, even though both her hands are still on him.

Time freezes as she stares at her unmoving, breathless child, stares at his face. She knew he would look like her, like Elizabeth, but she had hoped so hard he wouldn't look so similar upon his birth.

It is the same stillness, the same lack of color, the same lack of sound.

The same lack of life.

As agonizing despair starts to seep through every inch of her flesh, she feels it.

She feels _him_.

It is during that infinite second following the birth of her son that clarity takes over, as she realizes he's still there, in her mind, a part of her soul, now.

She doesn't hesitate.

She fills her mind with that same energy she had been using to push him out, and duplicates it, makes it a thousand times stronger, and she commands him with all her might.

**_BREATHE_**

They take their first breath together.

As his lungs fill up with air, her heart fills up with hope.

The changes are instantaneous. His face crumples in pain as his lungs open up, his entire body curling back into his fetal position, his skin turning pink almost right away. When his voice finally pierces the deafening silence, pink is already changing into a beautiful, healthy red. He screams loudly, disapprovingly, all of his muscles constricted, causing his body to shake, and it is the most gorgeous sound she has ever heard.

And as he cries, she cries with him.

A blurry moment later, she's not squatting anymore, but sitting on the floor between Peter's legs, all of their limbs entangled as she rests against his chest, and they bring their child upon hers. He wriggles and whimpers against her, four hands covering as much of his skin as they possibly can, trying to feel all of him, to give him warmth.

"Hello, baby boy…" she manages to say through her tears, and Peter's hands let go of him, then, if only for a second, quickly putting them right back on his shivering body as soon as he has placed a thick towel over them all.

The baby settles down almost immediately when he hears her voice, and she can feel his recognition through his confusion and fear. She's beyond amazed by how strongly she still feels him. But truth be told, she's overwhelmed by absolutely everything, at that instant, adoring the sensation of his warm, wriggling body against her skin, and every little sound he makes is a pure delight.

His eyes flutter open, then, tentatively; she knows he won't be able to see anything correctly for a while, until his eyes adjust to being in the outside world, but she swears that when their gazes meet, he stares right at her.

He lets out a small whimper then, as if telling her '_Man, that was rough.'_

She's completely unable to speak after that, her crying doubling in intensity. She didn't think she could cry harder than she already was, but she has absolutely no control left over her emotions; and in all honesty, she doesn't mind, doesn't care, having never before had a reason to shed such tears, tears of relief, of gratitude and love.

She uses their special bond to soothe him, letting him feel just how much she loves him, assuring him he will always be safe with them. Peter's hand moves again, then, coming to rest on his head, next to her hand.

"You're okay, baby…" he tells him softly, and his voice is so thick, she has no doubt they are sharing the same overwhelming elation at that instant; his words seem to be more for himself than for their baby, as he repeats them a few times. "You're okay…"

She momentarily turns her gaze away from their beautiful miracle settling down on her chest to raise her head and look up. She looks up at her best friend, at her husband, at the father of her child.

They don't speak, barely exchange a look, because this moment is too precious and ephemeral, too wondrous and intense, to taint its purity with words, spoken or unspoken.

She closes her eyes, and soon, she feels his face against her own, his nose nuzzling hers softly, lovingly, and she feels the warm tears that roll from his face, down onto hers. One of her hands dares slip away from their child's smooth skin to briefly rest upon the rough and damp stubble of Peter's cheek, before her fingers curl into his hair, silently telling him everything they will never need to say out loud.

She would never have thought in a million years that she would feel so serene in the aftermath of giving birth, her heart bursting with love for the two most important men in her life.

Lost into that endless instant that belongs to no one but them, they don't realize that outside, the rain has finally stopped.

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN**: I won't ruin the moment by rambling too much. Just precising that this is not the end of the story at all (it should be around 20 parts long when I'm done with it, in 3 years), because I'm finally getting the chance to write them as parents, and write more angsty stuffs. Yes, I'm hopeless.

Reviews would really, really make my year :')


	8. VIII

**A/N: **I apologize for the long delay! I have a list of reasons prepared, but I realize you most likely don't care, so I won't say much xD Just know that I was incredibly moved by the response the birth chapter got. Sometimes, I post a oneshot that gets a lot of reviews (they tend to be the very fluffy ones for some reason xD), but it very rarely happens for individual chapter from big stories. You killed me on this one, in the best way possible, thank you all so very much.

This part is most definitely fluffy, and I have no regret.

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

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><p><strong>VIII<strong>

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><p>For being a child of two worlds, their son's birth was surprisingly devoid of any cataclysmic event, and he didn't bring any kind of universal epiphany along with him. Some might point out the hurricane, turn it into some sort of sign, but in Olivia's humble opinion, it was mostly bad timing, and a dire kind of cosmic humor.<p>

She would agree with them upon the fact that he is a miracle, though. Not because his parents are from two completely different universes, but simply because he's _here_, alive, breathing, and the most amazing thing of all is that he keeps on doing just that as the minutes, hours, and days pass.

By the time they can officially weight him –meaning the roads have cleared enough for two anxious, euphoric, sleep deprived, dazed brand new parents to dare take the car, he's already on his third day of life outside her womb, and like most newborns, he has already lost some weight. He's 7 pounds and 1 ounce, measuring 21 inches, which is right on average; considering he should have had two more weeks to thicken up before coming out, Olivia's sore body parts are quite glad he actually came a bit early.

As expected, he also has ten fingers and ten toes, and is perfect in absolutely every single way.

His hair is the lightest shade of blond, so incredibly light it looks almost translucent, but it feels much thicker than it looks, under her fingertips. For now, his eyes are blue, an astonishing dark blue. Olivia stares into them for as long as he manages to keep his eyelids up whenever he's awake, and she cannot help but think he has Peter's eyes; it simply looks like the smallest drop of India ink has blended with his father's ocean blue.

She knows that as time goes by, the color will change and turn into green. Their shape won't change, though, and she wonders if in thirty years, he will have the same crinkles when he smiles. She's still too wonderfully bewildered to ponder on the probability of their world still being there or not in thirty years.

Only people who have spent several hours observing a newborn know how lively they actually are, despite a common assumption that all they do is sleep. They do sleep a lot, but they are never completely still. When awake, their little limbs move and kick, a bit awkwardly, trying to adjust from going from their dark, aquatic world, to this bright one governed by gravity. And her son is one curious buddy; his beautiful eyes roam and search, often attempting to find out the source of a random noise while sucking on one of his fingers, having long ago gave up on trying to understand why she keeps on staring at him like that.

She loves to watch him sleep just as much, to watch as his muscles twitch, as his eyes move under his close eyelids and he dreams; he sighs a lot, sucks on his bottom lip, surely imagining the superb meal he will get once he wakes up. Even when he's not doing any of these little things, there is always the constant rise and fall of his chest.

Only people who have observed a child lacking these simple and yet unquestionable signs of life understand just how precious and wondrous they are.

And for that alone, Nathan is a true miracle.

* * *

><p><em>(December 2018)<em>

Olivia wakes up _starving_, and feelings extremely aggravated.

She rolls over with a small unhappy groan, burying her face in her pillow while her entire body instinctively curls up into a ball, her foggy mind trying to figure out what is going on. She literally feels like she's going to have a massive break down soon if she doesn't get food, and fast.

It takes her a few, very confused seconds to realize that the strong stirs of hunger she feels aren't hers at all. When this becomes obvious, it is easier for her to untangle herself from the rim of her son's mind, much easier than it is to untangle her limbs from the sheets. She rolls over again, kicking and thrusting still very grumpily, her glassy eyes already trying to find the familiar moving green lights from the baby monitor. Peter is obviously out of the bed, which means he has gotten up first, like he usually does, but the lack of sounds coming from the nursery is what troubles her. When her gaze finds the device, sitting quietly on Peter's nightstand, she immediately understands that he has turned it off, which explains why she has been totally oblivious to her baby's unhappiness until now. And she cannot figure out why he would disrupt their night routine.

In the past six weeks, they have become quite efficient when it comes to sharing the tasks a newborn ruthlessly brings into your life, while the exhausted parents try to get a few hours of sleep a week. At first, she would automatically wake up with Nathan, her mind and body alert to his every need, but Peter had made her see that he could handle part of the 'late night feedings', too. That is why he keeps the monitor on his side. When the baby cries, he gets up and goes get him, changing a diaper that always needs changing, before bringing him back to their room. By that time, the small talks Peter is generally having with him while they're busy at the changing table have woken her up gently, and she's ready to feed him when they join her in bed. Peter is sound asleep by the time his head reaches his pillow, and she simply loses time with her little man, as he feeds contentedly.

As often as possible, she brings him back to his crib once he's done, but at other times, he falls asleep feeding, and she doesn't have the heart to move him, to put him back in his room all alone…and who is she kidding, of the two of them, she's surely the one enjoying having him sleeping between them the most, ever since she has overcome her fear of rolling over him in her sleep. Peter isn't over it yet, and he has this funny reflex of rolling off the other side whenever he realizes the baby is right there between them.

Olivia knows Nathan is as safe as can be, since his father obviously always ends up on the floor rather than over him.

According to all the parenting books –or according to what Peter has repeated to her anyway, routine is crucial to babies, and quite honesty, at times, it feels just as important to her. That is why she doesn't understand why on earth Peter would decide to suddenly disrupt it, especially since it's obviously upsetting the baby.

She reaches out to turn the monitor back on, and the sounds of his whimpers instantly fill the room, immediately triggering her deepest motherly instincts, the pain in her breasts getting worse. Over the sound of his small cries, she can hear Peter's shushing sounds -as if he was going to get any luck with that. He's _hungry_, what the hell is he doing?

And then he speaks, and she understands: "C'mon, buddy, I swear it's not that bad, I got it right from the source."

Her head falls back into his pillow, and she lets out another muffled grunt, before she completely rolls off the bed. From what she's feeling, it's only a matter a very short minutes before her hungry child loses what little he has left of his patience and starts screaming his lungs out. According to their clock, it's not even 3am yet, and Ella is (obviously) still sleeping. She's way too in love with her cousin to ever be mad at him if she gets awakened in the middle of the night by his shrieks, but Olivia tends to keep him from getting that upset as much as humanly possible. There is absolutely nothing worse than hearing your baby howl; it literally gives her physical pain.

She makes her way across the hallway to his room within a minute, finding the door ajar, his sad whimpers audible well before she goes into the room, and she's more than ready to scowl at her husband for torturing their child.

But as always, as soon as her eyes fall on them, she's incapable of being mad at him.

Peter is pacing the room, with Nathan curled up in the crook of his right arm, trying to rock him reassuringly as he's attempting to force the baby to drink from a bottle, and it is obvious that he is not going to succeed.

He only realizes she has joined them when she closes the door, still thinking of their niece asleep two doors down.

"You know, we're gonna have to throw that milk away now, and that's forty minutes of hard work in the sink," she points out with a slight glower. Pumping milk is one of those things she's really not enjoying about breastfeeding; it takes a ridiculously long time to get a decent amount of milk stored, and dumping any quantity at all is like dumping nectar.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he tells her a bit disapprovingly.

She gives him a look. "He sent me a distress call, that's how much he's disapproving of your decision to try bottle feeding him again in the middle of the night."

At the sound of her voice, Nathan's cries instantly get louder, just in case every inch of her body wasn't already aching for him, her breasts literally bursting with milk. Peter hands her the baby over without any resistance, admitting defeat quietly, and she coddles her distraught infant with soft coos and gentle kisses, letting him nestle into the crook of her neck, knowing that her scent will appease him.

"You want to bring him back to bed to feed him?" Peter asks her softly, and she shakes her head.

"I can do it here," she whispers back, before sitting into the armchair she now inwardly refers to as the 'breastfeeding chair'; she's been spending quite a few hours on this thing lately.

Nathan has mostly quieted down, even though she can tell he's looking for his meal now, his tiny mouth roaming over the skin of her neck. In six weeks, she has become rather skilled when it comes to 'getting down to business' swiftly, settling down and lifting just enough of her shirt and opening her bra, all with one hand, before accepting the pillow Peter's is handing her. Mere seconds later, her hungry baby has successfully latched on, and it's a relief for both mother and son…despite the fact that he's drinking a bit too roughly, as if to let her know just how much he dislikes what just happened.

"Hey, don't take it out on me," she chuckles, her nails running softly over his thin hair. "I swear I had nothing to do with this."

"I just wanted to let you sleep," Peter says, sounding a bit deflated now, as he sits on the floor next to the armchair, his chin on the armrest. "I know you're more tired than you'll ever admit, and he's going to have to get used to that bottle soon anyway."

She chooses to ignore his last remark, not wanting to think about how she'll soon go back to work, which means that she will have to leave her son in the care of a woman they've finally selected after only questioning her for a few dozen of hours.

"I'm fine," she tells him with a smile, her hand going from their baby's head to briefly ruffle Peter's crazy bed hair; her fingers quickly go back to her son, though, never getting enough of the feel of him.

Of course she's tired. Even with Peter's help, Nathan still needs to be fed every three or four hours, which means that she rarely gets more than two hours of sleep in a row, three at the most during the night when Peter is not working and can assist. She has gone _days_ without sleep in the past, has had years of insomnia under her belt, but this, this is a different kind of exhaustion. She's used to staying up all night because her mind is reeling too much with the things she's seen, with the voices of the people she couldn't save, with the haunting feeling that she's doing too little, too slow.

These days, she's so tired on a sheer physiological level that she doesn't even dream anymore, her mind simply disconnecting whenever her body crashes. She doesn't mind, doesn't care. Her baby is healthy, her baby is growing and hungry, and she wouldn't trade this for anything, not even for six hours of sleep without having her nipples sucked raw.

To be honest, she would never have pictured herself as the breastfeeding kind of mother, not when it is so entirely different from what she does every day at work, running after criminals, jumping off buildings, with her gun always ready. Considering how she hadn't allowed herself to really think about anything past her pregnancy, not even about the act of birth itself, it wasn't until after Nathan was born that breastfeeding had even crossed her mind...or rather had imposed itself on her.

Her newborn baby had only been breathing for a few minutes when he had started searching for her breast, and she had felt his craving, which had filled her with a new, overwhelming urge. And so she had guided him, helping him latch on without a second thought, letting her instincts direct her, like they had for the past few hours. And it had felt so right, so comforting and so nurturing, to the both of them, to feel him feed already when he was still attached to her through the chord, and she was still nestled against Peter's chest.

In that moment, Olivia had thought they could stay like this forever, the three of them all huddled up under the layers of towels Peter had put over them to keep them warm; the world had quieted down outside, and the soft candlelight permeating the room had only increased her incredible sensation of peace.

Needless to say that the mood had changed radically when two paramedics had finally banged at their door, less than thirty minutes after she had given birth. Talk about bad timing. Replacing his warm body with a pile of pillows, Peter had left her with the baby to go let them in. It had become obvious very fast that the man and the woman had been having a very long, very hectic day, that it was far from being over for them, and that they were both very tired and very tense.

The bubble of serenity in which Olivia had been floating had burst rather fast and dramatically, her body and brain so drained that she hadn't really understood what was happening. All she knew was that suddenly, the infant who had been sleeping on her chest a moment ago had been taken away from her, the chord severed without even offering Peter to do the job, and she was left on the floor with a stranger examining her while she was forced to hear her baby howler from the bed, where the woman was now checking him.

Peter had had to answer all of their questions about the delivery, not even trying to hide the grave disapproval from his tone and body language, obviously hating the sight of both his wife and son crying. The paramedic examining their baby had seemed to be the most considerate and understanding of the two, and after announcing that their boy appeared perfectly fine and healthy, she had carefully wrapped him in a blanket they had brought along with them, before handing the baby to Peter with a smile.

Olivia, who had indeed started crying again ever since her child had been taken away from her and had begun screaming in distress, had calmed down at the sight. The baby had quickly settled down in Peter's arms, as he rocked him gently; it looked like he had done it all his life. Obviously, it had soothed Peter too, his face a mask of sheer awe and raw emotions, as he stared down at his son. Watching them meet up close for the first time, Olivia had started to relax as well...though the paramedic still taking care of her hadn't exactly been helping.

He seemed very unhappy about the fact that the placenta still hadn't come out. He liked it even less when Peter, not even taking his eyes away from his infant, had smartly reminded him that it could take up to an hour for it to happen. The tired man had then asked him, a bit sarcastically, how he had come to know so much about birth, because after listening to his answers, it had become more than obvious that he had dealt with Olivia's delivery in the best possible ways.

Olivia had almost expected him to say "_I picked that up reading books, you should try it sometimes_", but leave it to Peter to surprise her.

Still rocking the baby comfortingly, Peter had looked the man square in the eyes when he said, very seriously: "Well, I spent some time in China when I was in my twenties, and I got to help a farmer and his cow deliver a calf. Who would have thought that cows and humans were so similar?"

Admittedly, some might not have appreciated being compared to a laboring cow, and judging by the look on the other woman's face, she was one of these disapproving women. But it had caused Olivia to laugh long and hard on the floor, way too hard, considering the poor state of her body; her fit of laughter had definitely caused her some pain, but it had felt so wondrous, too. And it had done the trick, relaxing her so well that less than three minutes later, the placenta was coming out by itself, proving to everybody that Peter was still completely in control of the situation.

Olivia often thinks back to the day Nathan was born when she nurses him; she is still in awe, even after six weeks, and beyond grateful for the fact that Peter had been at her side through it all.

Moving her gaze up from the dozing face of her feeding child, she meets Peter's equally sleepy eyes; she doesn't know which one of them is the most endearing at that instant. All she knows is that she loves them both to death. She brings her hand back up to Peter's face, cupping his cheek tenderly –he definitely needs to groom that beard of his, and he offers her a smile that is a bit groggy, but just as loving.

She has heard some people say that the arrival of a child can completely alter the dynamic of a couple, drastically, and often negatively, and she can understand why.

It's stressful, time consuming and exhausting, and she admits that she focuses most of her time and energy towards her son rather than her husband these days. But if anything else, Nathan's birth has brought them even closer together, and every second she spends with the two of them feels like a blessing; she feels like she loves him on a whole new level, now, even more deeply than before, though she didn't think it was possible.

She has become very aware of this a mere day after giving birth; they had still been secluded in their house, trying to adjust to their new life while being completely cut off from the outside world, which hadn't been so bad, all things considered. It could have been nerve-racking in so many ways, but it hadn't been. The three of them had spent most of the day in bed, getting to know each other. To Olivia, as long as her son kept on feeding regularly, she'd had no reason to worry –and Peter had made sure _she_ drank and ate, too.

That second night, she had allowed herself to take a long, long shower, having only taken a swift, necessary one the day before, letting the warm water soothe her very sore muscles; it had felt heavenly. When she had exited the bathroom, wearing nothing but a robe, and feeling incredibly appeased and a bit elated again, the bedroom had been shimmering in the soft candlelight, just like it had been during the birth; she had stood in the doorway for a while, leaning against the frame as she observed Peter with their son.

He had been standing, almost exactly where she had delivered him. The baby hadn't been nestled in the crook of his arm, this time; Peter had been holding him in his hands, most of his small, curled up body resting on his forearms, rocking him ever so slightly, even though he was already sound asleep. He had looked so tiny in his father's hands, but he had also looked so safe. And Olivia had been simply mesmerized by the look on Peter's face, another look of deep affection and wonder.

In this quiet moment, she had felt as intensely as she had the previous day, feeling the sudden need to reach for Peter, yearning for him, needing to let him know just how aware she was of what he had done for her, for their son. She had let him put the sleeping baby down into the small cradle they had placed near their bed before walking to him soundlessly.

When he had turned around, he hadn't seemed surprised to find her there; he had known she had joined them in the room a while ago, the three of them still inexplicably connected to each other, somehow. He _had _looked slightly taken aback when he had seen the look in her eyes, however, immediately followed by her hands reaching up for him, almost reverently. Without a single word, she had pinned herself to him, firmly and irrefutably, letting him enclose her in his arms almost instinctively. When she had pushed herself up on her toes to meet his lips, his embrace had immediately tightened, responding in kind.

It had a been a very long, and very languid kiss, her fingers lost in his hair, entrapped in his warmth and his love, as their hearts beat slowly in unison against one another, and she had poured into him all that she could never say out loud about what had happened on this very spot.

_I love you _

_Thank you_

_Never let go of me_

As she stares into his tired, beautiful blue eyes tonight, Olivia feels it all, all over again, her thumb gently brushing a hairless patch of skin on his cheek. She wonders if he knows what a wonderful man he is, and what a wonderful father he makes, despite his previous -reasonable- insecurities. There is not a hint of doubt in her heart; there never was. All that she hopes is that time will prove it to him, too.

Suddenly remembering what day it is –now that it's past 3 in the morning, and therefore understanding why Peter had decided to try and give her some extra hours of sleep, she whispers softly: "Merry Christmas…"

His soft smile widens, causing his eyes to crinkle the way she loves so much, the way she hopes her son's eyes will crinkle someday, and he shifts slightly, bringing one of his hands up to tenderly stokes Nathan's hair, his eyes fixed on him once more. "Merry Christmas."

Later today, after a few more -short- hours of sleep and one or two new feeding sessions, they will open presents with Ella. Their eager teenager will spend most of the day cooing over her cousin, surely quickly discarding what they'll give her to spend as much time as she can cuddling him. And Olivia will understand all too well; she and Peter already do.

They both know.

Nathan is the best gift they could ever have wished for.

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN:** When I started planning out this story before doing any writing at all, the name 'Nathan' came to me right away. Curious, I googled it to see if it had some meaning, because I love using meaningful things, you know xD When I read that Nathan meant 'Gift from God', I was like 'SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!' So Nathan it was, and Nathan it shall be.

Finishing this distracted me nicely from the current angst on the show, so I hope it distracted you a little, too :) Hopefully, it won't take as long for me to update again. Reviews help ;)


	9. IX

**A/N: **Apparently, there really is nothing quite like having my favorite show end to make me go back to all my unfinished fics. It's only been a year hahaaa! To be honest, this one really is _the_ story I hope to complete. It is very special to me, as was its 'prequel'. This chapter actually brings back some elements from 'In Reverse'.

I send a special huggle to whoever reads this :')

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>IX.<strong>

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><p><em>(February 2019)<em>

The meeting wasn't supposed to last more than three hours. She would be back before noon, one at the latest.

That's what she had promised Peter the previous night in answer to his disapproving look, after her work phone had beeped ominously, informing her of this impromptu meeting.

He hadn't asked her not to go. He had not argued that it was on a Saturday morning, that she had already worked too many hours this week. He had not used the family card, when he could easily have reminded her that she should be spending her rare time off with them rather than with her colleagues and superiors. In other words, he hadn't used any of the arguments a husband might feel entitled to use on his workaholic wife, under normal circumstances.

These, however, were not normal circumstances, by the date itself. If Peter had asked her to stay home, to stay with him, not even needing to give her a reason to do so, all he had to do was _ask_, she would have stayed.

Peter hadn't asked.

His pride, just like hers, remains too virulent at times, especially when he feels miserable. This trait of his, combined with Olivia's current and constant need to prove herself and others that she can be both a good mother and a good agent ever since she went back to work, explain why they have miscommunicated again.

As she hurriedly gets into her car on that Saturday afternoon, the digital clock on the dashboard indicating that it is nearing 4pm now, she cannot help but wonder with a heavy heart if she can be a good mother, a good agent _and_ a good wife. She's definitely failing the latter. Every reason she had given herself to agree to go to that meeting all feels irrelevant now, after having suffered through over six hours of talks, politics and depressing lectures.

Her head hurts, from both the talks and her exhaustion, but it is nothing compared to the ache in her breasts, as she hadn't exactly been able to excuse herself to go pump for twenty minutes. All she had gotten was a three minutes break around lunchtime, just enough time to insure she wouldn't start leaking through her shirt and jacket during the next hour –at this point, she still naively believed she might be out of there by 1.30.

But it's already late in the day, and even though she is now used to going six hours without releasing that specific pain in her chest, she has last fed Nathan at 6.30 this morning, which was over nine hours ago. More than on a mere physiological level, she always gets almost insanely distraught when she doesn't get to see him for so long. This is why his nanny brings him around the Fringe Division at midday, whenever possible, and never inside the building; people talk enough about it as it is.

She knows he's okay, though. She can always tell how he is, no matter how far she is from him, but it's never enough. Today, she barely had time to send a text to Peter during her break, asking him if everything was alright. The very simple _'Yes'_ she had gotten as an answer had efficiently increased her uneasiness.

She should have stayed home. Today of all days, she should have stayed home, and she had known it the moment she had left the house this morning, while he pretended to sleep. Part of her still hoped he hadn't gotten the mail, that nothing had come at all, and that his text had been so curt because he was busy taking care of their three months old baby alone, while she worked on a Saturday.

But she knows better, which is why she feels so bad now.

As soon as she's out of the parking lot and her phone gets a signal again, she presses her earpiece to call him. Outside, the sky is already darkening, which does nothing to ease her guilt.

"Hey," Peter answers after only two rings.

"I'm _so_ sorry. This lasted way longer than I thought it would, I'm on my way now."

She is indeed, cursing under her breath when the thick traffic already slows her down. It's always terrible in this city, particularly at this hour of the day, but it only gets worse when there's some snow on the roads.

"Okay," is all Peter answers, in a voice that sounds as flat as his text had been, causing her heart to sink. She wants to apologize for not being there, but as usual, the right words simply don't seem willing to come out of her.

And so she asks instead: "Is everything alright?"

But she's only rewarded with another flat, "Yes."

She should just drop it and hang up, but this coldness between them troubles her too much. She needs to reach out for him, and right now, the only way she can is through that phone line. Which is why she insists. "How's Nathan?"

"You know he's _fine_, Olivia." He's definitely annoyed now, sounding almost accusing as he reminds her that they both know she's always aware of how their son is.

Even though he has every right to be in that kind of mood, the irritation in his voice stings. All she can do is purse her lips in silence and stare at the break light of the car in front of her.

When he speaks again a few seconds later, his voice is softer, probably having realized that he shouldn't be unleashing on her. "He's sleeping, has been for a while now. He should wake up soon. Want me to stall feeding him until you get here?"

Her aching breasts almost throb at the thought, and even though she wants to say yes, longing for that quiet time she would get to spend with her son in his room, the fact that she has barely moved a hundred yards in the past three minutes makes it clear this is going to take a while; it would only upset Nathan to wait for his meal, and she doubts she can then wait another four hours before doing something about her own discomfort. It won't be the first time she will have to pump while driving home, as she's guessing this is one of these days. Motherhood comes with a whole lot of fun activities.

"No, you go ahead," she answers softly, concealing any trace of strain from her voice, because she might be longing for her son, above all, she's worried about Peter. "I'll be home soon."

He sighs, but there is no more impatience in that sound. She sees his face, eyes closed, head ducked in silent defeat, and she knows he _needs_ her home.

"Okay," he repeats, quietly, almost in relief this time.

As she expected, it takes her over forty minutes to make it home. As soon as she steps out of the car, she goes straight to the mailbox, only to mutter another curse word when she finds it empty; she knew it would be, Peter's mood had made it quite clear, but she had still clung to her wishful thinking. She then hurries to the front door, her eyes stopping on them as soon as she enters the house, taking them in as she discards of her heels.

They have moved a lot of their furniture around to accommodate all of Nathan's toys and accessories, that mountain of things people (and themselves) have bought for him. The living room's floor is now covered with a thick and fluffy rug, as they often put one his play mats there. That's what Peter has done today, having picked the jungle one, with monkeys and lions dangling over the baby's head, playing cheerful music whenever he manages to punch or kick one of them.

Nathan is lying on his back, staring at the toys hovering over him with wide eyes, his little legs kicking excitedly. Peter has lain down on his side next to him, his head on his bent arm, his other hand resting on Nathan's stomach.

Their eyes meet, and her heart aches.

She fights the urge to immediately join them, to lie down opposite Peter and put her hands on their son, too. She would then press her lips to the soft skin of his chubby cheek, breathing in that baby scent of his she's been craving for all day long.

She stays still instead, sharing a heavy look with her husband; the question she's silently asking him doesn't require any words. His whole body language screams of the quiet pain he's in.

"It's on the counter," he says then, his voice low and tired, bringing his gaze back to their son.

She keeps her eyes on them for a few more seconds, before her gaze moves towards the kitchen, taking off her scarf and coat. And indeed, there it is, in plain sight on the counter. This is odd in itself, as Peter usually throws the card away almost immediately. It means it's different, and he wants her to find out by herself.

She should have expected a change this year, knowing who sends these cards, and maybe Peter had; she wouldn't know. It is yet another one of these topics they don't talk about, unless they have no other choice but to talk about it.

For the past seven years, Peter has received one card in February, always on the same day. It is a birthday card for the son who died when the Other Side ceased to be. Just like the card she herself receives every October, she finds the gesture absolutely despicable, and plainly cruel.

Even from a distance, she knows right away that the card is different indeed, that it isn't one depicting the age the boy would be. As she comes closer to the counter, she recognizes the kind of card right away; they have received quite a lot of these in the weeks following Nathan's birth.

It's a congratulation card.

She barely notices the slight tremors in her fingers when she picks it up and opens it. She finds herself staring at the picture that has been placed inside, an odd numbness creeping over her. She studies it, almost as if it was a piece of evidence, instead of letting the aching realization overcome her.

It is only the second time Walternate has sent a picture of the boy to Peter. The first time, it had been part of the file he had sent years ago, informing him of the existence and death of his son. However, the baby isn't the main focus in the picture, this time.

His mother is.

She had been unexpectedly photographed, judging by the slightly surprised look on her face, as if she had turned her head at the sound of her name, only to be caught on camera. The small, bewildered smile on her lips seems to indicate that moments before, she had been staring at her newborn son, bundled up in her arms. The boy is so small in his red outfit, a blue hat covering his head, he couldn't have been more than a few hours old, his mother sitting crossed-legged on an hospital bed.

Olivia stares, almost in wonder now. As strange as it is, especially with everything that has happened, all these years ago, she had only been face to face with her Alternate once, for a few minutes, and they had spent most of that encounter wrestling on the ground, trying to knock each other out. She still remembers her smugness and self-assurance, how she had looked at her with something close to cold indifference and contempt. She couldn't have looked more different in that picture.

Olivia recognizes her awe. She _understands_ why she almost seems to glow faintly, understands where it takes its roots, knows the nature of that crushing, overwhelming and terrifying love that causes it. This comprehension hurts, makes her feel sick.

With something close to dread, she finally moves the picture aside to read what has been written on the card. This is different, too.

'_**Henry would have been eight today, if it weren't for you. Here's a memento of what you have destroyed. The resemblance is quite uncanny, isn't it?'**_

_No_, is all Olivia can think, as her eyes leave the card to find Peter again, who seems well decided on avoiding her gaze now, staring in the distance. _No._

It isn't a repudiation of what the card says, but a desperate plea, wishing the damn thing had never come at all. Considering the pain she feels, she can only imagine what reading these words and seeing that picture has done to him.

Her sudden nausea only worsens when she abruptly realizes that up until now, they hadn't known his son's name. It is the first time Walternate writes it down, and it is beyond outrageous.

She cannot stop herself from looking back at the picture. _The resemblance is quite uncanny, isn't it?_ She stares at the infant, asleep in his mother's arms, and it is indeed sickeningly easy for her to see Nathan as he was, only three months ago, before his face rounded up and he began to lose his newborn features; she even recognizes her sleeping angel in these familiar, delicate traits.

What hurts even more is the realization that Walternate's words weren't simply meant to point out the resemblance between her children and her Alternate's. What he meant to do was force Peter to look at this woman's face, and dare him not to see how much she looked like his wife. And judging by his current state, his Father has succeeded beyond expectations.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees the change in her son's movements, his kicks suddenly more agitated, and when she looks at him, she isn't surprised to see the first signs of a pout forming on his face, his lips drooping in a way she usually finds truly endearing. Not tonight, though, as she very well knows she's responsible for his sudden change of mood. She still has a hard time keeping her emotions from affecting him whenever she feels overwhelmed. She forces herself to calm down, closing the card and putting it back on the counter, taking long and deep breaths. If Nathan starts crying, she will get swept up by him, and right now, his father needs her comfort more than he does.

When she finally joins them in the living room, she doesn't lie down opposite Peter, like they often do. She lies down behind him instead, quickly and quietly pinning herself to his back. She wraps him in a tight embrace without waiting for a word from him, her leg going over his hip while her arm slips around his chest, pressing her nose into his neck.

She holds him to her in silence, until their breathings synchronize, and some of the tension in his muscles disappears. When he brings a hand to his chest to cover hers, interlacing their fingers, she moves her head slightly, resting her cheek upon his, still not entirely used to the smoothness of his skin there. He started shaving religiously a few weeks ago, after unintentionally giving a rash to Nathan. That's the kind of father is, the kind that beats himself up because he caused some redness on his child's skin; and he has to live everyday knowing he is responsible for the death of his other son.

On his mat, Nathan has calmed down again, his legs barely kicking anymore, though he keeps on staring at the animals over his head as if they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen; they probably were. They could stay like this, not saying a word. They could stay like this until Nathan got tired of lying on his back, and they would be sucked back into their routine.

She would bath him while Peter got dinner ready. They would eat, with Nathan watching from his seat. She would feed him, and he would go to sleep. By the time she was done, Peter would probably be in bed too, pretending to be asleep again, so they wouldn't have to let any more awkward, heavy silences stretch between them. It would be almost easy, to do what they did every year, to pretend.

But Olivia is tired of the silence.

She is tired of the pain, tired of letting it simmer all year long, until it reaches its boiling point on specific dates and burns them from the inside out.

They have made some progress in the past year, especially on the anniversary of Elizabeth's death. Maybe it is time they acknowledge the boy, too.

_Henry_.

When she speaks, she does it quietly, her eyes fixed on her son, her fingers still squeezing Peter's against his chest.

"When I was Over There, there was this man. The day I managed to escape from the Department of Defense and swam all the way from the Island to the city, I ended up in his taxi cab, pointing a gun at his face and ordering him to drive me around."

She had mentioned him in the report she had written upon coming back to this universe; even though they had never really talked about this period of time, she knew Peter had read it. She had never mentioned Henry Higgins' name, though, summarizing his role to '_a civilian who helped her on several occasions_', which was much less than this brave man had deserved, especially considering how much, and how _well_, she remembered. Her photographic memory is not the only thing responsible for the fact that she has never forgotten that man's smile, or the smell of his cab.

"He was such a kind man," she continues, lost in her thoughts. "He only cared about his family. And he believed in me, when everyone on that side was forcing me to believe I was somebody else. He protected me, risked his life for me. He helped me come home."

_Come home to you_, she thinks, tightening her grip on him, never quite immune to the remaining traces of this old, barely faded feeling of homesickness she had felt constantly back then.

Finally, she says: "His name was Henry."

She feels the brief hitch in his breathing, the sudden renewed tension in his muscles. "Why are you telling me this?" He asks after a few moments, his voice thick with emotions he cannot conceal. "I killed that man and his family."

She closes her eyes, his words squeezing her heart, hating the lump already forming in her throat. On his mat, Nathan is getting agitated again, but she cannot make herself calm down. "That's not why I told you this," she says, honestly.

Peter moves, disentangling himself from her embrace. She lets him go, sitting up as he does the same, still avoiding her gaze. "Then why?" he asks again, reaching out for Nathan before he starts crying, sitting him in the crook of his arm, bouncing him gently.

Even though Peter keeps his eyes on his son, Olivia's gaze remains on him as she says: "I told you this because…Nathan still doesn't have a middle name."

_This_ finally gets Peter to look at her.

His face is grave and somber, his eyes dark. She doesn't need to develop; he's a genius, after all, he understands perfectly well what she's suggesting, and judging by his darkening scowl, he's not happy about it. "You're joking, right?"

She shakes her head slowly. "I've never been more serious."

He briefly closes his eyes, then, swallowing almost convulsively. When he looks at her again, his eyes are reddening, his expression more wretched than irritated, now. "You want to use my dead child's name, the child I _killed_, as our son's middle name."

But she shakes her head again, almost imperceptibly. "This is not about death, Peter. This is about honoring the people who were important to us. This name has meanings to me, just like it does to you. We talked about this when I was pregnant with Elizabeth, that's why we decided to name her after your mother."

He's almost shaking now, that last comment hitting another sore spot, battling with a range of emotions that threaten to break him from the inside.

Olivia remains as calm and composed as she can, despite the pain this subject in itself causes her to feel, for her son's sake more than anything else. She needs him to stay in his father's arms right now, aware that the feel of the infant against him might be the only solace Peter can find in that moment.

She moves closer to them, though, until she's sitting by his side, half-pinned to his back again. She wraps an arm around his shivering body, pressing her lips to his shoulder.

"Henry is an old name," she says softly, looking at her son, who is now curiously tasting his own fingers. "I doubt his mother picked it randomly, it probably had some meaning to her, too."

Peter doesn't say anything, but he's considering her words, staring at Nathan with intense focus. She doesn't speak again, giving him time to process her suggestion, to maybe manage to push aside his self-loathing long enough to see the bigger picture. And while he loses himself in thoughts and reflections, so does she.

She cannot help but wonder if maybe, the man who had helped her had something to do with the choice of that name. The idea is almost ridiculous, of course, what would be the odds of that happening? But having experienced the things she's experienced, she is all too aware of the balance that used to exist between the two universes. She knows about the parallels and harmonization of events between their two worlds. All things considered, it isn't that far stretched.

And again, she thinks of that picture, on the counter. She stares at her son, and thinks about how Henry was about the same age when the Other Side finally ceased to be, less than a week after Peter's interaction with the Machine. She wonders what she would have done, in her Alternate's place.

What do you do, when you know your world is dying, when it's crumbling around you, and you have no way of saving your child? How do you find comfort in your last moments, knowing you have failed to protect the people you love the most?

She has never blamed Peter for the existence of this child, nor has she blamed _her_. Under other circumstances, she might have been hurt by it, but by the time they had learned about him, he was already gone; she had been too preoccupied with Peter's pain to make this about her in any way.

She has never blamed him for stepping into that Machine either. If he hadn't, their world would have been the one to be destroyed. She understands his pain.

War doesn't simply result in sacrifices; it _demands_ them.

And it isn't fair. It isn't fair to the innocents who died, nor is it to the people unwillingly responsible for their deaths. They are damned souls, condemned to spend the rest of their lives with the burden of their action.

"Nathan Henry Bishop…" Peter eventually says, looking at his son, as if needing to hear the sound of it, needing to feel it roll on his tongue. "Talk about having a heavy name."

She smiles sadly against his shoulder, though she's relieved to hear him speak, relieved that he has heard her out, instead of simply pretending she hadn't said anything.

"We're his parents," she points out quietly, moving her head again to look at his face. "What else did you expect?"

Peter chuckles softly, but there is no humor in the sound, only a bone-deep fatigue that seems to be coming out of his every pore. His thumb gently brushes Nathan's cheek, until the baby turns his gaze up, his green eyes focusing on his father. "What do you have to say about this, kiddo? Any complaint about who's raising you, yet?"

Olivia stares at them, at her two boys, one of them crushed and broken by the weight of his guilt, while the other still holds the pure innocence of his age. It is a beautiful, heartbreaking contrast.

She lets her love for them take over, lets it seep from her mind to her son's, sending him one clear and genuine message.

_Smile, baby._

And Nathan smiles at his father.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN:** Fun fact- when I first planned this part, about 18 months ago (HAHAHA), I emailed my friend Ferris, because I was worried the name thing might be more morbid than meaningful and I wanted her opinion. I guess I wouldn't have worried that much if I had known they were gonna name their daughter Henrietta down the road xD

Reviews would be most appreciated, I'm curious to see who's still interested in this. I'm warning you, I'll keep on writing it anyway, it's been planned and ready to come out for months, and I really really want to finish it. Just prepare yourself for...ANGST! *evil French laugh*


	10. X

**A/N:** Thank you all so very much for your reviews :') It made me all kind of emotional to know so many of you were still looking forward to reading more of this, I actually wrote the first draft of this the following day, after I posted the last chapter. Reviews are like magical, motivating cookies xD

Enjoy! :)

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><p><strong>IN TIME<strong>

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><p><strong>X.<strong>

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><p><em>(July 2019)<em>

Olivia stands in the shower, her bare back pressed against the tiles, as the scorching water relentlessly splashes the ground, a couple of feet away from them. She feels clammy and hot, wearing nothing but her underwear. The steam has opened up every pore on her skin and has turned her hair into a damp, heavy mass upon her shoulders.

Against her chest, Nathan breathes laboriously. His body is so limp that he feels heavier than usual in her arms. It does nothing to calm her fears.

He is by no mean a very active child to begin with; at eight months old, he still hasn't shown any inclination towards physical activities, such as crawling. Ever since his birth, he's been reaching most milestones early, an obvious sign that he has inherited his father's brain and probably his IQ, but his very quiet nature is not conductive to being interested in exploring the world on his hands and knees.

He moves around on the ground just fine if he needs to, going from one toy to the other on his own, but if they were to leave him alone in a room for whatever reason –which never happens, he wouldn't use that opportunity to try climbing on anything climbable. Olivia has never been worried about this; she already knew while pregnant that he would be a calm baby, and she sure isn't going to complain about the fact that he enjoys playing with blocks and looking at his picture books more than trying to break his neck by being adventurous.

Nathan is a sweet, cuddly, and quiet child, but there is a big different between being calm and being lethargic.

His fever simply refuses to break, and she worries about _that_ alright.

His pediatrician had warned them that their son would probably become more susceptible to germs once she stopped breastfeeding him, as her body wouldn't be providing him with the antibodies he might have been using until now. This warning had not prepared them for the reality of it, nor for how distressing it would turn out to be.

If it had been up to her, Olivia would have kept on breastfeeding him until he was at least a year old, but like many other aspects of her life, the choice hadn't been entirely hers. With her job and the insane hours she was often pulling, he had already been feeding on pumped milk, formula and steamed food for the most part, as she rarely got a chance to do it herself anymore, once a day if she was lucky. But she had never been a lucky person.

In May, right after Nathan had turned six months old, she'd had no other choice but to go to Europe for that mandatory, annual meeting, during which Fringe Division agents from all around the world meet to discuss the fate of their universe. The five days she'd had to spend away from home had finally settled the issue.

She had been absolutely miserable the whole time, spending each day discussing the increasing degradation of their world, absolutely everywhere now, and how helpless they were to stop it. Most of all, she had been weaning her son from a distance, missing him and Peter terribly.

By the time she was coming home, Nathan was already coming down with his very first cold.

For as long as he had lived, his health had always been remarkable. Now, he doesn't seem to go more than a few days before his nose gets runny again, his eyes glassy and teary. He also gets grumpier than usual, which is understandable, but mostly, it simply makes him want to snuggle even more. This new health development has been surprising, and all kind of daunting, but so far, Olivia has managed to think about it rationally enough, accepting that it is not uncommon, nor is it life-threatening.

This time, however, it's worse.

His chest is congested, and the sound of his cough terrifies her, just like this fever of his. It started earlier today, and it only goes down for a little while, about thirty minutes after giving him proper medication. It is never high enough to be dangerous and make them take him to the ER, but at this point, anything making her son feel miserable is like torture to her.

She won't be able to relax until they get him to his doctor, first thing in the morning. Peter has already called of course, and talked to the nurse on call, who had listened to the symptoms and assured them that as long as the fever didn't reach more alarming numbers, or that he started refusing to drink, they could wait until the doctor came in. It was she who suggested to turn the shower into a steam room and take him in there, explaining that it would help opening up his airways. All the nurses know them well by now, as Olivia has taken the habit of calling the doctor's office quite often; she has been told it is not an unusual behavior for first time mothers.

She guesses it is probably even more understandable when you really are a 'second time' mother, but you never got to experience any of the scary aspects of motherhood the first time around, because your baby died before she was even born.

As she rocks him soothingly, humming a lullaby in his ear over the sound of the falling water, she cannot help but think of Rachel, again and again. She's been doing it a lot, lately, long before the fourth anniversary of her death came around the previous week.

She often finds herself wishing for her sister, longing for her in brand new ways; she knows she would have been able to offer her precious and useful advice on how to raise a child. Even after eight months of this, Olivia still doesn't have the faintest idea what she's supposed to do, especially in cases like this, when her inexperience opens up the door for all of her insecurities to creep right back in. She feels like she lacks what Rachel had seemed to possess naturally.

Once, before Ella was even two-years-old, Olivia was supposed to babysit her for a couple of days. After only a few hours, though, the girl had suddenly developed a potent fever. It had been scary alright, but the moment Rachel had come back, she had taken over with such ease and confidence, apparently knowing exactly what to do, talking about teething and possible ear infection. What Olivia remembers the most about that day is the feeling of intense relief she had felt when she had relegated her niece to her sister, freeing herself from that smothering responsibility.

But the responsibility is all hers, now. Even Peter's unwavering presence, knowledge and help, cannot ease her mind, her chest crushed with worry. She is so aware of how, as his mother, Nathan's well-being depends entirely on her, and she feels absolutely helpless.

She almost jumps at the sound of three gentle knocks on the glass door.

Moving carefully, mindful of the wet, slippery floor, she reaches for it and opens it, barely, not wanting to let too much of the steam escape their enclosed space. She is surprised to find Peter fully dressed in his 'agent' outfit; it's past 2am. She doesn't have to ask, her confusion evident enough.

"We just got called in. There was Class Five breach in the Bronx."

"I can't go," she immediately replies, almost defiantly, a possessive hand massaging her baby's back again, feeling the rumble of his lungs under her palm.

"I know," he says gravely with a tilt of his head. "And I don't expect you to, I just wanted to let you know. They're requesting me. Looks like another one of these new vortexes."

She tries to feel some worry at the thought; in the past six months, a new, startling kind of vortexes has started to bloom. What is so peculiar about them is that it looks like _people_ are purposefully creating these, as if trying to accelerate the degradation of their world.

She tries, but Olivia cannot find it in herself to be concerned about anything beside her child, right now.

"Okay," she simply says. "Be careful, Peter."

"I will," he promises, his eyes now on Nathan. "How is he?"

She shakes her head, swallowing hard. "I don't think I'll be able to stay in there for much longer, he's already getting warmer, and there's over two hours to go before I can give him more Motrin."

Peter opens the door just a little more so he can lean down and kiss his son's flushed face. He then does the same on Olivia's damp cheek, lingering there a second longer, before assuring her with confident look: "It's gonna be alright."

_It won't be alright until my baby gets better,_ she wants to say, but she nods instead.

"Wish me luck," he adds, and she forces herself to smile at him, her usual response to this old exchange.

Once Peter has gone, she tries to stay in the shower, aware that it _is_ easing Nathan's breathing, but by then, she is almost able to feel the increasing temperature of her son's body against hers. She eventually has to give up, leaving the steaming shower and grabbing a thick towel to cover them both.

She takes him back to his room, keeping the light low. As she lays him on his changing table and begins drying the dampness off his skin, she continues to speak softly to him; he's half-awake, or maybe half-asleep, gazing up at her through blurry, feverish eyes. Despite her pounding heart and the fear clutching her insides, Nathan remains incredibly calm in her mind.

She knows her presence alone is enough to make him feel safe, and that knowledge only makes _her_ feel worse, almost ashamed of her inability to physically make him feel any better.

He is so warm, too warm, his body shaken by small tremors. Still, she smiles at him and sings softly, slightly relieved when he takes a few good gulps from the sippy cup she brings to his mouth. Any kind of relief swiftly disappears when she checks his temperature again. It immediately shoots into the 100s; even though it still hasn't reached 'dangerous numbers', it's enough to increase her panic. She still has a couple of hours to wait before she can give him any more medicine, what if it keeps on climbing?

Her heart is now lodged in her throat, thumping hard, unable to think of ways to help him. She briefly think about drawing him a bath to make the fever go down, but the idea is suddenly pushed away by something else, an unexpected urge taking over her.

_Just keeps him against you,_ a voice instructs her, a voice that doesn't even sound like her own, coming from somewhere deep within herself. _Keep him against you and relax, like you used to do._

She doesn't fight the voice, yielding to this impulse almost immediately, as if on auto-pilot. Aware of the discomfort he would feel with clothes, she only wraps a new diaper around him, still wearing nothing but her underwear herself. She sits down in the rocking chair, draping a blanket over them both, keeping their bodies pressed together. With his nose into her neck, Nathan is asleep in a matter of moments after she begins rocking, his breathing still raspy and labored, his skin burning against her own.

She rocks and rocks and rocks, letting the familiar serenity of his sleeping thoughts invade her head. Usually, she keeps them at a distance. Ever since his birth, despite the tight and unique bond that exists between them, she has kept herself from exerting the kind of symbiosis she used to share with him when she was pregnant, somehow aware that some lines needed to be drawn; something that powerful never comes without its own set of consequences, good _and_ bad.

She throws all caution to the wind tonight, only wanting to make her baby feel better, to take his pain away. And so she allows her mind to completely meld with his, the way she used to do. Soon she feels the heat of his body seep into hers, their brain waves syncing and harmonizing.

She isn't aware of the moment her trance turns into sleep.

When she feels herself moving, she doesn't exactly wake up. She regains some consciousness, but mostly, her body is too heavy, her brain too foggy, and she feels like her every muscle now aches with inexplicable pain. She's aware of a smell, first, a scent she instantly recognizes; it's the smell of safety and home.

Peter.

It is mixed with other smells, harsher, bitter –burn, chemicals, amber.

Barely managing to open her eyes, which feel unusually warm in their sockets, she soon realizes that she's in his arms, her face pressed into his neck as he carries her, moments before he puts her down onto their bed. She's freezing, all of the sudden, shaking.

It doesn't matter.

"Nathan," she mumbles, trying to sit up, but her body is too heavy, and she limply falls back into her pillow.

Peter's hands keep her down when she tries moving again, gently yet firmly, bringing the covers over her shivering body. "He's okay, I put him back in his bed so I could bring you here. You're burning up, Olivia."

_That_ much she can tell, now aware enough to understand that she's experiencing some strong fever herself. She wants to tell him she's fine, her usual response to anything concerning her health or state of mind, but she's then shaken by a coughing fit. It has an ugly sound, coming from somewhere deep in her chest. All she manages to do then is shake her head.

"It's been long enough, he can get more medicine," she croaks, suddenly very glad her husband is back.

She would have forced herself back up on her feet to tend to her son, if she'd had to, no matter how miserable she now feels, but she will gladly let Peter take over this time.

She's honestly surprised by how sick she has gotten, in such a short time; she had shown no symptom, no sign of having contracted Nathan's germs. Despite her state, all of her concern is for her son and her son alone.

"Go," she insists, shoving Peter away with a weak hand. And so he goes.

She probably dozes off again, because it barely seems like any time has passed when she feels the deliciously cool sensation of something cold upon her forehead –a wet cloth. She opens her burning eyes, taking Peter in. He looks slightly singe, she notices at last, and she wonders what has happened on the field. She doesn't feel brave enough to ask about it now, needing to hear about her son first.

Peter answers before she can get the words out.

"His fever is completely gone, so is his cough" he says, in an odd voice. "His breathing sounds clear, too. It's like…he was never even sick."

She chuckles at that, relief pouring through her, and it is the most wonderful feeling. But her chuckle swiftly turns into another coughing fit, _her_ breathing anything but clear.

"Good…" she manages to breathe out after she's done coughing, followed by a relieved sigh; she feels like she can sleep at last. Peter studies her, though, his brow deeply furrowed. "What?" she whispers.

He looks confused and troubled, not to mention definitely concerned. "Did you…" he begins, but he never finishes that sentence. It's as if he doesn't dare put this thought into words, maybe unwilling to deal with the implications.

Even in her poor condition, she knows what he was going to ask, just like he already knows the answer.

They both know exactly what she just did. And while all she can feel is pure relief, it is obvious that his emotions on the matter are very different.

She makes herself move, forcing one of her hands up, a very, very heavy hand, briefly resting it upon his cheek.

"I'm fine," she finally manages to say, honestly. "I just need sleep."

Eventually, he nods a little, but his face remains crumpled with unease, even as he takes her hand in his and briefly presses his lips to her clammy palm. He wants to talk about what happened, in their son's room. Maybe they will, once she feels better.

Or, maybe they will not.

It doesn't matter, not to her. All that matters are Peter's words, still echoing in her mind as she drifts into slumber.

"_It's like…he was never even sick."_

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p><strong>AN**: I plan on exploring this bond of theirs more thoroughly in upcoming chapters, so stick with me :D Did I mention there's gonna be angst? Leave a reviews if you're not shocked :p Thanks for reading guys ;)


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